


Timejacked

by QueenKLee



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Nazis, Pure Grade A Olicity, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Season/Series 02, Time Travel, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 43,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenKLee/pseuds/QueenKLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2014, Oliver Queen is smitten with IT girl Felicity Smoak, but he completely loses his heart to her while they join the French Resistance during World War II. (The comic book universe lets you get away with that kind of logic.) When Oliver and Felicity enter The Great Escape Room, they are "timejacked," dropped behind enemy lines during the 1940s. With their future imperiled, and only each other to trust, they discover their true feelings as they fight to save the Allies, stay alive and return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> [Most of this story is set in wartime France more than 70 years ago. My heart and prayers are with the people of Paris now during this terrible time of senseless violence. Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.]
> 
> I began researching and writing this multi-chapter Arrow story weeks ago with the intent to complete all of it before posting, but... Yesterday I noticed that the upcoming Flash/Arrow crossover will feature Rip Hunter and Vandal Savage, characters that play pivotal roles in "Timejacked." The coincidence astounds me. I had plucked Hunter and Savage from the vast DC comics universe because they were the best fit for a fanfiction involving time travel to the 1940s. I had no idea these two were also to be featured in Season 4's plot. What are the odds of that?? So... I've decided to begin posting this story as I work towards its completion. Hopefully, this will turn out to be a good decision! I'd love your feedback and hope you enjoy "Timejacked!"
> 
> I don’t own Arrow. This is for entertainment purposes only. Let's hope that happens!

"No," Oliver thunders, the crease between his brows deepening. "And we're done discussing this."

"Excuse me, **_dad_** ," Felicity snaps in reply, her voice rising as she does. "We're not done until we have explored all our positions. Um, not our _positions._ Because we don't have _those_ positions. Not like missionary... oh, no."

Oliver just stares in astonishment, wondering how a brilliant mind like hers can run her mouth so completely off the road and straight into the gutter.

Diggle, curling weights into his massive biceps, watches the exchange with bemused expectation. For months, he's had a front-row seat – heck, more like season tickets – to this couple's mating dance yet they're both oblivious to, or in perpetual denial of, the magnetic energy vibrating between them.

Felicity has counted down to one, trying to bring her focus back to the original argument.

In a half-hearted effort at being helpful, Digg volunteers, "You're having the one about whether Oliver will let you go undercover. He will say 'no.' Emphatically. You will end up doing it anyway."

Oliver throws a laser sharp glare in Diggle's direction, adding, "Not helping."

"Just trying to save us some time and productivity, man," Diggle adds, unruffled.

Oliver drops his head, shaking it with a measure of defeat.

Felicity recognizes the shift from obstinance to surrender and it's almost painful to cope with this side of him. Oliver Queen is a complex, dangerous man, haunted by a brutal past. But he is also fiercely loyal and protective of his people, especially her. She takes it for granted too often, is angered by it when it restricts her choices, but in the deepest places of her heart, she craves his shelter. Maybe he's not the only complicated one.

She strolls to where he stands in the medical bay, stitching a hole in his leather jacket. "You're patching your clothes. With sutures," she observes. "That seems.... wrong."

"It's leather, Felicity," he answers. "It used to be an animal's skin."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense. In a kind of creepy way," she adds with a small shudder.

Felicity drops her hand onto his forearm and Oliver looks up, blue eyes locking on blue.

"I get it," she admits. "You just want to keep me safe. And believe me, that's what I want too. I'm all about the part where I stay safe."

She dips her head, tracing the stitching of his jacket with her fingers. "But I'm not a helpless damsel who needs rescuing. Except when I do," she admits, raising her head with a dimpled smile. "And then I'm completely down with the full-scale rescue. Bring a full quiver and all the big guns.

"But I'm quite capable of filling a bigger role and carrying my own weight," she says earnestly.

"You more than carry..." he begins, but she places a small finger to his lips and he stills.

"I know you hear me," she says in quiet sincerity, her eyes saying, ‘ ** _Now_** we're done.’

Her finger still rests on Oliver's lips. She can feel the warmth of his breath on her hand, the scruff on his top lip and she wants to slide her palm to his jaw, but she pulls back, realizing her inclinations would cross a line that might lead to rejection. And that would wound her in ways she cannot bear.

**> \----> |<\----<**

Seven individuals are missing from Starling City and the authorities are getting no traction in solving the disappearances, which seem unrelated. To everyone except Felicity. Few things obsess her like a mystery, particularly one that baffles all the designated experts. In her eyes, the gauntlet has been thrown.

She dissects and scrutinizes every aspect of the missing peoples' lives, marshaling the search functions of powerful technology as if she is the general of a marauding invasion. Each of the lost people is highly-gifted with specialized skills or intelligence. It takes days and sleepless nights before she discovers the single connecting thread linking all seven.

"The Great Escape Room!" Felicity shouts, her small first pumping the air in victory.

Oliver, just returned from his evening prowl as The Arrow, yanks his hood back, a questioning look on his tired face.

"All seven. They were all there. Or at least they were booked to go there," she happily announces, spinning in her chair, her ponytail bouncing as if it is gleeful too.

"The Great what?" Oliver asks, playing catch-up.

"The Great Escape Room. It's an escape room. You've heard of them, Oliver," she affirms.

"No?" he confesses, thinking he needs to hide the espresso machine she loves a little too much.

Felicity tilts her head to the side, pondering how clueless he can be where trends are concerned.

"Okay, escape rooms are very popular now. I've been dying to try one but Barry made me promise to wait until we could go together."

Oliver's face darkens slightly, but she is so excited about the topic she doesn't notice, forging ahead with her volume of information. Felicity is a frothy fountain of facts.

Oliver sits down, knowing this could take a while.

"People pay to be locked in a room to solve intricate puzzles," she explains, delighted at the prospect.

"Sounds like what I do to you every night," Oliver observes, pausing as he realizes it sounds vaguely perverted. "My God, she's contagious," he mutters to himself.

"You don't lock me up and I don't pay to stay," Felicity clarifies.

"Every escape room has its own theme," she continues. "There's theatrics involved to set the mood. And usually you have a one hour time limit to solve the puzzle in order to escape."

"What kind of puzzles?" Oliver asks, warming to the subject, partly due to her unbridled enthusiasm.

"All kinds! Codes, keys, riddles, patterns, scavenging," she explains, counting off the possibilities on her nimble fingers.

"Your idea of Disneyland," Oliver guesses with a slight smile.

"Well, it is only for an hour, Oliver," Felicity says, standing and walking closer. "And my idea of fun requires a lot longer than that." She has leaned in, holding his gaze. This was no babble.

Felicity straightens, turns on her four-inch heels, grabs her things and sashays up the stairs and out of the foundry, leaving Oliver to admire the view and her sass.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	2. Barbie and Ken Go to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their mission unfolds with Oliver and Felicity going undercover in vintage WWII finery, scoping out The Great Escape Room, where they will unlock a mysterious doorway to the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be saying goodbye to The Foundry, Digg and Roy for awhile as our favorite couple begins their long, treacherous journey. Thanks for your Kudos on Chapter 1. Comments are greatly appreciated!

It’s decided. Oliver and Felicity are booked for the eight o'clock slot at The Great Escape Room that night. Diggle and Roy will be watching both exits and Oliver is armed with a Glock. They hope their tiny earwigs will not be detected since technology devices are a cheat in an escape room.

Because the room's theme is set during World War II, Felicity has insisted that they dress the part in 1940s clothing, which thrills her. She is captivated by the retro fashion of the decade. And she is striking, her blond hair down in gleaming waves with glamorous peekaboo bangs, full crimson lips and a vintage, figure-hugging dress of white cotton patterned with red cherries. Her chunky red shoes are Mary Jane-style heels.

She has found a WWII Army officer's uniform for Oliver and when he walks out in it, she has a hard time remembering why she thought he could never look better than when he wears Armani. The sight of him makes her mouth go dry. Felicity has a new, steamy understanding of the reason for the baby boom that followed the Second World War.

Oliver is mesmerized by Felicity's pinup poster look. Her vintage silk stockings have a center back seam that has hooked his full attention. Where on earth did she come up with those, he wonders, and what's holding them up? He's just getting the visual of Felicity in a black garter belt when Diggle's fingers snap in front of his face. "Hey, soldier. Look sharp. You're AWOL."

Oliver pulls his focus back to the mission-at-hand, studiously avoiding Diggle's smirk. They are minutes away from departure, traveling in two vehicles.

"Felicity, what do we know about the people who run this place?" Oliver barks, a little too loudly.

Unfazed, she grabs her red patent leather handbag and her phone as she takes a last-minute check of her work station. "It's owned by an older British couple, named Carter. But the day-to-day operation is managed by Rip Hunter and Bonnie Baxter."

"Any skeletons in their closets?" he asks.

"Not a single bone. It's like they came from nowhere. The absence of information is the most significant thing about them," she concludes.

"False identities?" Oliver muses.

"Probably," she ponders, leaning back in her chair with a tilt of her head. "Think we can get a fingerprint tonight?"

"I think that's the very least we can get," he says.

Satisfied that her digital world is in order, Felicity rises and steps into Oliver's space, straightening his tie as she looks up to him with a radiant smile. "Ready, Captain?"

His face softens and the corners of his mouth crook upwards as he looks down on his partner's stunning face. He could get lost in her so easily. "Captain?" he asks.

"Not the Bratva kind," she explains, enjoying the warm feeling of his hand now cupping her elbow as they turn to climb the stairs together. "Because they don't wear uniforms. I don't think? Do they? Because that would sort of work against the whole Russian mafia mystique. Although, you are a full-fledged captain in that sense too. So, take it as you like, Captain."

They've reached the parking area behind Verdant, where Roy leans against the four-runner as Diggle emerges on the loading dock with supplies. Roy gives a long admiring whistle as he scans Oliver and Felicity head-to-toe.

"Barbie and Ken go to fight the Nazis," he remarks.

"Nope," she replies, patting Oliver's scruff. "Ken didn't have the whiskers."

 Oliver and Felicity slide into the front seats of his Porsche while Digg loads the last of the surveillance equipment into the other rig.

"That's not all he didn't have," Oliver says, hearing Roy's and Diggle's bawdy laughter as the Porsche pulls away.

**> \---->|<\----<**

The Great Escape Room is located in a restored American Craftsman bungalow in a quiet neighborhood of Starling City. The structure is large but unremarkable in appearance. Without the ornate sign hanging from the porch eaves, passersby would assume it was merely a private residence.

As Oliver parks on the street, he asks, "Are you taking your phone inside?"

"Absolutely," she vows. "I'm keeping it until they pry it out of my cold, dead fingers."

"You'd have never survived as a castaway," he remarks with an eye roll.

"Probably not," she agreed, "But my phone's shiny glass face is the perfect surface for someone to leave a fingerprint." And with a wink, she bounces out of the car.

Halfway up the walkway, Oliver reaches for Felicity's hand, which she gives with a smile.

The coming treacherous hour will span a lifetime.

**> \---->|<\----<**

" _Yesterday's failures are today's seeds that must be diligently planted to be able to abundantly harvest tomorrow's success_."

Felicity reads the framed quote aloud in the foyer as they wait for their hostess, whose energetic footsteps can be heard on the polished hardwood floors.

Bonnie Baxter is a petite brunette dressed in a navy blue denim romper with a bandanna scarf tying up her hair.

"Rosie the Riveter!" Felicity exclaims with enthusiasm.

Bonnie strikes the vintage pose, flexing her bicep and vowing, "We can do it."

"Yes, we can," Felicity squeals. "The forties' look is so fun."

"Well, you two look great!" Bonnie comments with an admiring glance. "Not many of our guests go all out like this. But I would expect nothing less from Oliver Queen and..."

"Smoak," Felicity volunteers. "Felicity Smoak."

"I'm Bonnie Baxter," she says, extending her right hand. “It’s a pleasure to have you."

The public Oliver Queen grin appears and changes his countenance so drastically that it still dismays Felicity despite how often she has seen him in this role. Privately, she calls it Oliver's fake face, the polished mask hiding the haunted man only known to his closest circle.

As he shakes Bonnie's hand, he exudes charm, "We can't wait to escape. Or at least try."

"I can promise you quite an adventure," Bonnie assures them. "Just follow me into the office. We'll go over the rules and get the forms signed. Just the usual boilerplate waivers. You know, not responsible for Acts of God or war."

Felicity takes in the decor and furnishings as they trail their host, respecting the game planners' attention to detail in recreating an era seventy years past.

"Wow," Felicity exclaims, "I feel like we've traveled back in time. This would fool Dr. Who."

"That's high praise from this one," Oliver shares a genuine smile with Felicity, whose heart skips a beat. Oh what this beautiful man can do to her with so little effort.

"Thanks," Bonnie responds. "We try."

"You have a partner?" Felicity asks.

"Mr. Hunter and I run the escape room for the elderly couple who own the property," Bonnie explains. "We make the magic happen."

"Business is good?" Oliver asks, taking the paperwork she hands them.

"It's keeping pace with our business model," Bonnie replies, adding a wink, "A good review from Oliver Queen wouldn't hurt."

"Well, we'll see how the next sixty minutes go," Oliver says.

"I promise an experience you'll never forget."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Having signed the routine waivers, Oliver and Felicity surrender their cell phones, making sure to grasp them by the edges in hopes of capturing Bonnie's fingerprints.

"Okay, you will have one hour to solve a series of puzzles and challenges to escape the room, which will test your intellect, strength, agility, courage and reasoning. There are hidden clues, secret compartments and red herrings, so that's up to you to sort out. But please do not break the furniture because you, Mr. Queen, look as if you could do so with little effort," Bonnie adds with a flirtatious grin.

Oliver merely arches a singular eyebrow at her comment so Felicity jumps in, saying, "Oh, he's completely housebroken. But not in the puppy puddle sense because that would be gross. And his mother was strict, I'm talking mommy-dearest strict, so he would never..."

Oliver places a warm hand over hers, interrupting her runaway thoughts. "If we break anything, it will be replaced," he promises their hostess as she rises from the desk, gesturing for them to follow.

Exiting the office, Oliver mouths, "Puppy puddles?" to his partner who gives him a panicked grimace.

They stop before an aged wooden door, where Bonnie turns and explains, "As game master, I will be monitoring your progress. In case of emergency, your safe word is 'Roosevelt.' Now, the real adventure begins. Once you cross this threshold, you will be stepping back in time to 1944, somewhere in Europe."

The brunette pulls an ornate, heavy key from her pocket and offers it to the couple. "Who would like the honor of unlocking the past?" Bonnie asks with an inviting smile.

Felicity grabs the key and inserts it into the tarnished silver lock, turning it as the lever slides free. She twists the knob and pushes the creaking door open.

In feverish excitement, Felicity grabs Oliver's arm as they enter the escape room. The door closes with a thud behind them. The wooden floor disintegrates beneath them as they plummet in terrifying freefall. Completely disoriented, all that Oliver can hear are Felicity's screams for "Roosevelt!"

**> \---->|<\----<**


	3. Bitch Without Wi-Fi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The desperate need for basic necessities, such as clothing, shelter and a bigger bed, overshadows the larger question to be faced by Oliver and Felicity. Just how far did they fall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for your kudos and comments! Olicity is in the soup now. This is a long chapter, but gives these two the opportunity to get closely acquainted. Nakedness will do that. Enjoy!! [Just a mild warning: Oliver experiences brief symptoms of PTSD early on in this chapter.]

On and on they fall through darkness. Oliver reaches for Felicity a second too late. He can still hear her cries as he fights his own rising terror – not of falling – but of the inevitable collision with the ground. Experience tells him that their landing may be fatal especially since he cannot see where or when they will crash.

‘Work the problem, Queen,’ he demands of himself. He marshals his senses, noting that the temperature has chilled, the air now feels moist and he smells... what? It's familiar and unnerving. The sea. His stomach clinches as he realizes that he is about to relive a nightmare. But this time it will not be Oliver and Sara pitched into the unforgiving watery depths. It will be him and Felicity.

He senses that they are close to hitting the water's surface and angles his legs down. At least he hopes he is correctly guessing which direction is down. "Felicity!" he yells, in hopes she is close enough to hear him. "We're over water. Go in feet first. Feet fir--."

Oliver knifes into the water, the shocking cold taking his breath before salt water floods his mouth. He bobs to the surface, his mind spiraling backwards to another night when he choked on the icy waters of the North China Sea. Oliver cannot face this again. He is overtaken by brutal memories. The endless, hopeless days. The thirst. Gnawing hunger. His father's brains blowing across the raft, hot blood spraying Oliver's stricken face.

He flounders, losing the contents of his stomach into the churning waves. The water's chill is causing his muscles to tighten and he slips under the water. Maybe this was the fate he cheated all those years ago. Maybe Oliver Queen, the selfish playboy, was destined to drown at sea and this is history's way of correcting itself. This is the death he'd certainly earned.

And then she saves him.

"Hey! Heads up, big guy!" Felicity yells as her arms reach down for him. "Lucky thing we landed in water! I thought we were gonna be splattered over three counties."

He can make out her smile in the dim light although her lips are trembling with cold. Felicity has plummeted, lost, into dark, bone-chilling waters but she rises, grinning and glittering with resilience.

And Oliver laughs. Within the hour, they will probably die of hypothermia, drown or be eaten by sharks, but Oliver has Felicity at his side and they will shine in whatever moments they have left, as long as they face it together.

"Wonder where we are?" she asks, splashing next to him.

Oliver is calmer now and finds it possible to focus on their situation as his crippling fear fades. He whips his head to look around them, allowing his eyes to adjust to the degrees of darkness. His attentions are caught by a faint gleam.

"There, Felicity! Do you see?" He points low on the horizon.

Miraculously, her eyeglasses are still on her face, but the lenses are flecked with sea water. Following his gesture, she squints at the streak of light. "I think it might be on shore, Oliver."

"Whatever it is, it means a boat or land," he answers. "Looks like we're swimming?"

"If it helps warm us up, then yes, I'm all about the swimming," she says through chattering teeth.

"It should do that," Oliver reassures her, rubbing a hand up her chilled arms.

They stretch out, stroking side by side, keeping the amber spark straight ahead. Even though the tide seems to be with them, it's tough going because of the numbing cold. Oliver worries about Felicity's exposure and ability to maintain her core temperature. She doesn't have his muscle mass, but she's holding her own. It's difficult to guess the distance to their goal.

"Is this wishful thinking," Felicity begins, "Or is that a shoreline I'm seeing?"

Dark edges are beginning to take shape on the horizon now. "I think you're right. But while you're wishing, add shelter to the list," he says between labored breaths.

They finally reach sandy footing and stagger onto the beach, clinging to each other before collapsing in a frozen heap.

"Lord love a duck," Felicity mutters between purple lips. "Never been so cold."

Oliver rises to his knees, ordering, "Felicity, take your clothes off."

"What?" she yelps.

She hears him sigh and can imagine his resigned expression, even in darkness. "We have to get these wet clothes off."

He's yanking his arms out of the sodden soldier's jacket which is no small feat because the water-logged uniform has suctioned to his biceps.

"But, I can't just.... We can't ...  I don't want..." she sputters.

Oliver puts his hands on her shoulders and lowers his face until it's mere inches from hers. "Fe-li-ci-ty," he says firmly. "Believe me. This is not how I imagined getting you naked. This is about surviving."

"Oh." Her mouth is frozen in a tiny, perfect circle. But she files his words away for future consideration.

Oliver gets back to the miserable task of peeling off his cloying uniform and Felicity accepts her fate. Her frigid muscles resist every motion as she wiggles out of the soaked dress. She's regretting her choice of snowy white underwear because as every girl knows, when wet, it will be virtually transparent. Thank heaven this is happening in inky darkness, she thinks.

Oliver is down to his dark boxers which he keeps in place. He digs in his discarded trousers, discovering that the Glock is gone. Felicity is shivering violently, her body aching in this wretched cold. And then Oliver is right in front of her, reaching towards her. His hands briskly stroke the length of her arms, encouraging blood circulation. Then he kneels facing her, massaging her Popsicle legs. Felicity wishes this was happening under different circumstances. Totally different. Like on a fur rug next to a crackling fire.

"Better?" he asks, rising again.

"Um, yeah," she admits. "My legs are thawing, I think."

He gathers the wet clothing, including hers, into a dripping ball and stands, turning towards the light that has become their beacon of hope.

Reaching an arm around her bare back, he pulls her to his side, saying, "Come on, let's see if we can find shelter."

Felicity's embarrassment over her state of undress is rapidly dissolving with an overwhelming need for warmth and Oliver's broad shoulders make a decent windbreak. Unfortunately, their shoes are long gone so the barefoot climb up the sandy slope takes extra time as they gingerly make their way.

It's a small cottage with a lamp burning in a front window that has drawn them from the sea. In this moment, Felicity believes it's more beautiful than the Queen mansion. They climb the weather-worn front steps and Felicity raps her knuckles against the modest door as she bounces up and down, chasing elusive warmth.

"Hello?" Oliver calls. "Anyone home?"

"Okay," Felicity says, "We've made an honest effort to be polite. Break it down, Oliver."

He reaches around her and twists the doorknob, easily pushing it open.

"Or, that works too," Felicity cracks, wasting no time rushing into the room.

"Hello?" Oliver repeats, softer this time.

"We're just two mostly-naked strangers invading your home," Felicity yells, secretly relieved that more eyes are not going to see her in her birthday suit. But that thought quickly jumps to the realization that they are no longer under cover of darkness and she is in very sheer, damp undies. She scoots around the nearest corner.

"Wait, Felicity!" Oliver warns, "Let me check first for..."

"It's fine, Oliver. This is an empty house and I'm going scavenging for clothes. Or a blanket. Or a large tea towel. If there's a villain hiding back here, he's going to face my naked wrath," she declares. In her loud voice.

"At least he'll die happy," Oliver mutters.

Her head pops back into view, "Say what?"

"Whatever makes you happy," he answers.

"Coward," she softly chastises before disappearing again.

But only a moment passes before she calls out, "Oliver! Come see this!"

He bolts in the direction of her voice to find her standing, wrapped in a light quilt, staring at two large duffle bags placed side by side on a bed. Each bag sports a leather tag with writing, labeled "Madame" and "Monsieur."

"What the frack," she wonders aloud. He exchanges a mystified glance with her before stepping forward for closer examination.

Oliver sees no trip wires or any other obvious signs that the bags are dangerous. He slowly unzips one and spreads the flaps to look inside. Ever curious, Felicity raises on her bare tiptoes to peek around him.

"It's men's clothing," he says. "And gear."

"What's in mine?" she urges.

With arched eyebrow, he looks back at her, asking, "Yours?"

"Well, you're not a Madame. Obviously," she pronounces, looking pointedly at his briefs.

Oliver is momentarily flustered, turning to the side. "Well, Felicity..."

She has never seen Oliver embarrassed or shy about his exposed body. The man practically lives bare-chested in the Foundry. And he is frequently in varying states of nudity in the medical bay without a care to who can see him because he's too busy bleeding. Not that she has any complaints. Anyone with a physique as ridiculous as his should be appreciated. Often. Like freaking  artwork, she thinks.

Felicity ducks her head to hide her amusement and reaches for a woven afghan on a nearby rocker. "Here, this will help warm you up." She lifts it to his shoulders and it falls to a presentable length, restoring his unsettled dignity.

Then Felicity turns her focus to Madame's bag and delves inside. Like its counterpart, this one holds a practical assortment of woman's clothing and rudimentary personal things.

"Oliver, do you think... Were these left here for us?" she asks turning her face up to his. "Are we still in The Game?"

His piercing eyes scan the antiquated little house and he shrugs. "Felicity, I have no idea where we are or how we got here."

"Maybe this isn't real," she suggests. "Maybe we were drugged and this is a very vivid hallucination. Or... we've been hypnotized! Or we died and this is the afterlife."

"As much as you're enjoying the sci-fi possibilities," Oliver says, "I'm going to interrupt you before you get to the parallel universe theory because we need to deal with our situation in this moment, in this place. Despite the questions we can't answer."

"Yet," Felicity emphasizes, making it clear that this mystery has not escaped her compulsive need to understand all things. "We can't answer **_yet_**."

"Yes, Felicity, I have little doubt that your remarkable brain will have this all sorted out by the light of day," he agrees, with a small grin. "But for now, we should take stock of our provisions."

"We have clothing," she exults, patting her adopted duffle. "And a roof overhead!"

"After we're dressed, we can take a look around,” he suggests, grabbing his bag and stepping back into the hallway to provide a moment's privacy.

"That won't take long, as tiny as this place is," Felicity comments as she retrieves a pair of satin pajamas that appear to be close to her size. She slips behind the bedroom door to shed her wet underthings before skimming into the PJs.

"I feel just like Myrna Loy," she murmurs, happily remembering the screen goddess. Felicity drapes her lingerie on the bedpost to air-dry. There's a gilded brush and comb on a mirrored tray atop the dresser so she untangles her hair, efficiently plaiting it into a single loose braid. Having lost one earwig in the sea, she removes the remaining one and tosses it into the duffle, although the saltwater has probably wrecked it as well. She locates a soft pair of socks which feel wonderful to her chilled toes.

Felicity can hear Oliver rummaging in the little kitchen so she commences her search through the dresser and nightstand drawers. "I've got hankies, a sewing kit, bedding, liniment."

Oliver pauses in his rooting through kitchen cabinets. "Did you say liniment?"

"Yep, that's what it says," she answers, joining him as he investigates cupboards. "Sloan's Apothecary Liniment. In a glass bottle. No expiration date." She unscrews the metal lid and wrinkles her nose at the fumes. "Phew, smells like turpentine."

Now that their attentions are fully focused on their adopted "home," it becomes obvious that their emergency housing is indeed rustic. The lamps are fueled by kerosene and a large copper bucket filled with coal rests beside the stove. Thankfully, there is running water serving the kitchen and tiny bathroom. The living room and bedroom share a chimney with small fireplaces on each side of the common wall.

"I guess Wi-Fi is out of the question?" Felicity jokes as they return to the front room.

"And which of your devices currently needs it," he inquires, spreading his empty hands.

"Damn," she softly curses. "We are definitely walking the earth in a weakened condition."

"On the bright side," he offers, "There's radio." Oliver points out a vintage radio cabinet.

"I don't think Howard Stern will be all that helpful right now," Felicity says as she gives the antique a closer inspection. "But this is cool. It's an old farm radio. They were powered by tube batteries. Fascinating... This feels like a full-immersion museum," she remarks, touching the crocheted doily decorating the radio cabinet. "Or a childhood visit to my Bubbe's house."

“Whose house?” Oliver asks, confused.

“My Bubbe. You know, my grandmother,” she explains. “Who made the world’s best latkes and matzo ball soup?”

“Oh, of course. I just never heard you call her Bubbe,” he says, hoping she will say it again because, well, it’s kind of adorable.

Oliver has come up with a sturdy pair of boots which he is pulling onto his stockinged feet.

"You're not going to leave me here?" Felicity gasps. "Sorry. That sounded needier than I meant it to, but... You're not leaving me?"

Oliver hears the fear in her voice. He stands and crosses the short distance between them, laying a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I wouldn't leave you, Felicity. I'm just going to step outside to find kindling to build a fire. I won't be long."

His steady presence, just his unclouded gaze, can settle her in ways that no one ever has.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Of course," she agrees, surprised by her inner hysteria. "Just a little wigged out with all the drowning and hypothermia and nakedness. Plus we don't know where we are or how we got here."

She says all this in one breath, so Oliver waits until she runs out of air before pulling her to his chest, one hand cradling her jaw and his other arm wrapping around her back. "Whatever this is, wherever we are, I won't leave you, Felicity. We're in it together."

His strong heartbeat beneath her ear and the solid circle of his embrace is comforting. It is an effortless thing to surrender her anxiety to Oliver's strength and his protective nature.

"I might have some abandonment issues," she whispers into his shirt.

His laugh rumbles under her ear. "It's rumored that Oliver Queen has a few issues of his own," he confesses, dropping a light kiss along her hairline.

Felicity tilts her face up, her cheeks dimpling in a smile. "A few," she confirms, "like referring to himself in the third person."

She steps back and reaches for the front door, saying, "Go forth and gather. I'll hunt for matches."

By the time Oliver gets a fire laid, they are both nearing exhaustion. The extreme circumstances of the last few hours are conspicuous in the dark smudges beneath their eyes. Felicity has moved the duffle bags off the bed, which is calling to her. She pulls back the coverlet and inspects the linens which seem to be clean. They have the fresh smell of salt air as if they were recently line-dried.

Oliver has toed off his boots as they both eye the solitary bed. It's small by anyone's standards, probably a double mattress. He eyes her bra and panties that festoon the footboard, but decides it’s safer to avoid the 'commando' quips crossing his mind.

"Which side do you like?" Oliver asks her, removing his belt.

"Oh," she squeaks. "We're sharing. A bed. Which is... um." Then, she says under her breath, "Okay, wrapping my brain around this development."

Oliver scrubs his face with a hand, sighing. "I know this situation pushes boundaries. But it comes down to this. Felicity, do you trust me?"

Her face jerks up to his, their eyes connecting. "Of course. You know I do."

"And you know I would never do anything to harm you?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, Oliver. I know that. I depend on that," she confesses with a soft smile.

"Then, please allow me to share this tiny bed with you and accept my promise that your virtue is safe...tonight," he adds with a wink.

She gives him a small nod, accompanied by a giggle, as he removes his shirt and eases onto the bed, which sinks and gives a slight groan as the springs absorb his weight.

The mattress seems to shrink now that most of it has disappeared beneath Oliver's shoulders. Felicity's narrow side of the bed is now pitched noticeably higher.

"Well, this night should be memorable," Felicity pronounces, as she removes, folds and places her eyeglasses on the nightstand. She lies on her back and promptly rolls down, right into Oliver's side.

"Ooof. Sorry," she apologizes. He opens one tired eye at her plight.

Felicity grabs her edge of the bed and pulls herself upright. She shifts to rest on her side, puts her head on the pillow and bends her knees, which press into Oliver's hip.

"Whoa, your knees are bony," he protests.

She gives an offended little huff and struggles to roll onto her other shoulder, which puts her bottom into direct contact with Oliver's arm.

"Now that's better," he murmurs, to her horror as she tries to wiggle away from his touch. There is more flipping and flopping as she attempts and fails to avoid his space.

"Woman," he says, not quietly. "Find a comfortable place in this itty bitty bed even if that means lying on top of me."

Felicity jumps out of bed and stands, regarding him. She’s torn between which ludicrous milestone most deserves her attention. Oliver sharing her bed or the fact that he used the term “itty-bitty.” After a few moments of thought, she simply surrenders and whispers, “Holy Roosevelt.” With a smile shrouded in darkness, she crawls back under the covers, snuggles into his side and draws a last cleansing breath before slipping into dreamless sleep.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	4. Who's Zoomin' Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver awaken to a bizarre world that offers more questions than answers. Until that knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very happy to have so many of you following our favorite couple on their mysterious journey back in time. This chapter isn't a long one, but hopefully it will meet your expectations! Your comments are a gift and an inspiration. [Thanks to So_Caffeinated for explaining what a "trope" is!]

Felicity wakes with her face cradled by Oliver's shoulder, his hand heavy on her hip and his leg possessively wrapped around hers. The first rays of morning are breaking through the sheer curtains and the cries of shorebirds pierce the tranquil sounds of the tides. She rests in the even rise of his breathing, captivated by the soft lines of his boyish features, so rarely at peace. A sleeping Oliver is an uncommon sight. When she has seen him lying down, he is usually sprawled in the foundry medical bay, sedated for pain or knocked unconscious, with a deep crease lingering between his brows.

The intimacy of their position feels strangely natural to her. She is accustomed to Oliver's frequent touches whether his hand is resting on her shoulder, poised at the small of her back or skimming her arm. And circumstances have tended to land them in close quarters. This is not her first time in his embrace, but the shared “itty bitty” bed is definitely a new wrinkle in their relationship, the status of which is perpetually murky. Especially for the two people **_in_** _**the relationship**_.

Her reverie is interrupted by a rumbling noise, growing louder overhead. Oliver's eyes fly open and he's instantly out of bed and on his feet, in full-bore lethal mode.

The sound bears down on them and Oliver throws the bedroom window open, his eyes drawn skyward. Felicity has joined him, peering at the squadron of aircraft as it shrinks on the horizon.

Oliver pulls away from the window, stunned.

"Wow, that was loud," Felicity mentions. "Some kind of military planes, weren't they?"

He pivots on his heel, strides out of the room and flicks on the vintage radio. Strains of big band music echo through the small house. Oliver twists the tuner dial, bringing in another station broadcasting an announcement promoting war bonds. Felicity is ninety-nine percent certain it is Cary Grant's voice, based on the classic old movies she has watched with her mom. Oliver adjusts the tuner again to the resonant voice of a newsman.

" _Berlin was a kind of orchestrated hell -- a terrible symphony of light and flame. It isn't a pleasant kind of warfare. The German capitol city was hit with about three times the amount of stuff that ever came down on London in a night-long blitz. This is a calculated, remorseless campaign of destruction. I return you now to CBS, New York_."

The voices change, announcing, "You have been listening to Edward R. Murrow in an eyewitness report of... "

Oliver switches off the radio, momentarily frozen over the cabinet.

"Oliver? I don't understand," Felicity says. "That sounded like..."

"World War Two," he finishes her sentence, turning to face her.

"The radio could be picking up a rigged signal," Felicity suggests, her imagination working on overdrive. "The game masters could have--"

The shock on Oliver's face scares her. He is completely freaked.

"Felicity, those planes... That was the German Luftwaffe. It was a fighter squadron of Messerschmitts," he declares.

"But, it could still be a hoax," she argues. "An elaborate, expensive hoax, I grant you, but--"

"Look around this place, Felicity," he commands. "Do you see one thing – just one – that was made after 1945? Anything stamped ‘Made in China’? Any plastic?"

In her mind, Felicity frantically inventories the house and every item they've discovered. Her eyes rake the little parlor. Surely, she can detect the one detail the game planners overlooked. Her brilliant powers of perception should be able to deduce a logical, rational answer.

But she can't.

Oliver sees the defeat in her posture, her face.

"We're not in the game anymore," he says, gripping her shoulders with his hands. "We are behind enemy lines. At the mercy of The Third Reich."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"No, we're not. That's impossible," Felicity reiterates, shaking her blond curls, lying loose against her neck. After their rude awakening, they rebooted the day by getting dressed and devouring a bowl of pears from the kitchen.

"Coming up with a quantum version of time travel requires us to figure out the time evolution equations for density states in the presence of closed timelike curves," she rationalizes.

While Felicity talks gibberish, Oliver drops onto the pretty settee in the front room, causing Felicity a moment's pause as she half expects it to collapse beneath his weight. But, apparently solid wood furnishings of yesterday were sturdier than the crappy Ikea pieces she owns.

"Travelling forwards in time is surprisingly easy. Einstein’s theory of gravity that unites space and time allows for the possibility of wormholes.  But going back in time would mean travelling faster than light – and that’s not possible," Felicity concludes, assuming that clears up the matter.

Oliver peers at her as if a begonia had just sprouted between her eyes.

"Aren't you addicted to that show about the time traveler in a phone booth?" he asks.

"Police Box. Not phone booth. But, yes! Dr. Who! **_Love_** that show. Well, the whole BBC really," she blurts with enthusiasm. "But it's still fiction. Awesome fiction! But not possible. Even inside a cool police box."

Oliver rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs before asking, "So your theory is..."

"Oh, we're under the influence. Definitely. Drugs. Hypnosis. Some powerful agent that's causing us to hallucinate," she says decisively.

"Both of us? Having the same hallucination? At the same time?" Oliver asks, sounding dubious.

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it? Whose head trip is this?" Felicity schemes with glee. "Is this all your dream that I'm a part of? Or... am I the one who created this scenario and you're just a guest star?"

Oliver groans in frustration. "Fe-li-ci-ty, you're making my brain hurt. It doesn't matter which--"

A sharp rapping at the door interrupts him and Felicity's heart jumps into her throat.

They exchange a look of shock, but he recovers quickly and is back on his feet.

"I guess another character is joining our fantasy," Felicity remarks. "Not the _Ménage à trois_ kind, although that would make three of us..."

With an eye roll, he waves her back into the bedroom, where she scampers.

Another knock as Oliver glances through the window.

"See anything?" Felicity stage whispers from the hallway.

"A bicycle," he answers quietly.

"That's good," she says. "Danger never rides a bike." She even adds an encouraging thumbs-up.

Oliver gives her the side-eye before jerking the front door open to a gun barrel leveled at his chest.

**> \---->|<\-----<**


	5. Welcome to the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that danger does indeed arrive on a bicycle as Felicity enjoys their "joint hallucination" while Oliver looks for somebody to punch. Everyone's needs are met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New characters join Olicity's adventure as they journey forward. In answer to questions about the exact timeframe of this story, Edward R. Murrow's radio broadcast from Chapter 3 was first delivered in December of 1943, but because this story is still being written, I may fudge that forward a bit, depending on the needs of the developing plot. History buffs will know that hellzapoppin in Normandy in mid-1944 so our intrepid time travelers are definitely at center stage of global drama. I am thrilled by your enthusiastic responses. Now, on with our saga...

" _Bon jour_ ," a little man says with a jovial smile. "Welcome to ze French Resistance."

The gun-wielding stranger moves forward, forcing Oliver to step back into the room. " _Monsieur_ Queen, you are a dangerous man. This I know. But if you makes me shoot you, what will happen to your sweet  _Félicité_ , hmm?"

" _Mademoiselle?_ " the intruder calls out. "You will join us, _s'il vous plait?_ "

Felicity slowly reappears, edging around the corner, her attention locked on the weapon aimed at Oliver.

The Frenchman gestures to the settee, adding, " _Bien!_ Please, we sit?"

Exchanging glances, Oliver and Felicity cautiously lower themselves, side by side, onto the loveseat as their captor settles into a side chair.

The stranger positively beams with disconcerting pleasure. "Welcome to--"

"Yeah, we got it the first time," Felicity interjects. "The gun doesn't feel so friendly somehow."

"Oh, _Je m'excuse_ ," he says with sincerity. "We just did not know how your man would respond." 

"Well, your concern is valid,” she drawls, “because _my man_ can, and still may, break you in half."

Oliver arches one brow in Felicity's direction.

"We want information about you and why we were brought here. Without the weapon. Now," Oliver commands in a cool, lethal tone.

The stranger's smile slips, but he lowers the rifle and props it at his side. " _Oui, oui._ It is as you say. _Je suis désolé._ Sorry for my rudeness. I am Jean-Paul. I am a member of the--"

"French Resistance," Oliver and Felicity say in unison.

" _Oui_! Yes! And you..." he pauses. "Like the others, you were chosen to come here to help us."

"Where is here?" Oliver asks in frustration.

" _Je ne comprends pas?"_ Jean-Paul says with raised palms.

"Where are we and how did we get here?" Felicity presses for an explanation.

"Ah, yes, we are on the northern coast of France near Cherbourg in Normandy. _Capitaine_ Hunter choose each of you for your expertise. He make arrangements for your arrival."

Oliver and Felicity share bewildered glances. "Where is he? Hunter?" Oliver demands.

" _Oui_ , he is near," Jean-Paul admits, his beret bobbing.

Oliver stands, intimidating the diminutive Frenchman. "You're taking us to him," Oliver demands.

"But of course," Jean-Paul readily agrees. "It is why I come. It will be my _plaisir_ to escort you and the lovely _mademoiselle_."

"The clothes – the other things - were left for us, weren't they?" Felicity asks Jean-Paul as they gather their meager possessions and supplies.

"Ze clothing, _oui_. This is a safe house for our _combattants de la liberté_ and ze Allied flyboys we help escape. We keep it ready for those who need it."

"Boy, did we need it," Felicity says. "I've never been so glad to get out of the cold. And the nakedness..."

Jean-Paul smirks in Oliver's direction with a slight giggle, which elicits a stoic stare.

"He's not handling the situation well," Felicity explains. "Oliver's upset about waking up in World War Two."

"Felicity! How can you **_not_** be upset?" Oliver protests.

"Because I know it's not real," she calmly assesses. "This beach house, the war planes, this little Frenchman. All imaginary!" Felicity sweetly pats Jean-Paul's knee and whispers, "No offense."

She crosses to Oliver, leaning in to rest her open palms on his chest. "Doesn't really matter what we see, say or do. Because, hello, not real." With that, she plants a luscious kiss on Oliver's mouth.

The warm softness of Felicity's lips pulls his eyes closed as his hands reach for her waist, his fingers reflexively tightening to bring her closer. He dips his head to deepen the kiss, drawing a sigh from her.

Jean-Paul subtly clears his throat to remind them of his presence.

"We're making your imaginary man uncomfortable," Oliver says quietly to Felicity without releasing her.

"Who says he's mine?" she counters. "Maybe he's **_your_** little freedom fighter."

"My guy would be taller."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Jean-Paul leads them outside and reveals two more bicycles hidden in the brush behind the bungalow. Pedaling a single-speed vintage bicycle over a rough goat path was a rude experience compared to the stationary bike she occasionally rides at the climate-controlled gym while bingeing on the Gilmore Girls. Her calves are burning and her shoulders protest by the time they stop at a primitive camp in a narrow strip of woodlands. Like ghosts, men materialize from the shadowy trees. Their appearance tells a story of hardened fighters living in the wilderness, suffering deprivation and exposure to the elements. The sight of a woman, particularly one as pleasing as Felicity, leaves them slack-jawed. Oliver recognizes the raw wanting in their eyes. Hell, as a former castaway, he remembers the acute depth of craving for a woman's voice, smile, touch, being buried in her softness.

Felicity does not notice the slobbering reaction to her arrival in their midst. After many bouncy miles astride the bike, her primary focus is finding some private relief in the trees.

Oliver has invaded her personal space, striding to her and draping a possessive arm around her waist. If not so distracted by her personal needs, Felicity might question his hovering presence at her side when they are surrounded by a country mile of the great outdoors.

Under her breath, she tells him, "I need a few moments alone. In private."

He casts an experienced eye towards the surrounding woods. "Okay, go ahead, but be careful. And quick." He drops a deliberate kiss to her temple as Felicity slips from his hold. "What the frack was that about?" she wonders to herself as she crosses the treeline.

As soon as Felicity is out of sight, Oliver stalks closer to the ragtag group of men, his expression firm and challenging.

His voice rings out, "She's mine! I will kill any man who touches her." Oliver turns to Jean-Paul, commanding, "Tell them."

" _La femme est la sienne. Il tuera tout homme qui la touche_ ," the Frenchman translates.

Some of the fighters nod while others submit by lowering their gaze. Except for one man.

He is tall, muscular and better dressed than the others. He holds Oliver's attention while closing the distance between them.

"Monsieur Queen," Jean-Paul begins, "Allow me to introduce--"

Oliver cuts him off, glaring at the approaching soldier. "Rip Hunter?"

"Oliver Queen," the man greets him, extending his right hand as Oliver smashes his fist into his host's jaw.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	6. Timejacked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Hunter has answers, finally, for Oliver and Felicity, although she remains dubious about the whole timejacking business. Vandal Savage, an immortal warrior, is conspiring with The Third Reich. And Olicity share a second horizontal night together in a cold, cramped tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How great is it to actually have readers (and fellow writers) excited about this story!! Your comments and kudos fuel my commitment to these beloved characters and this adventure. Thank you and merci beaucoup! Here we go...

When Felicity emerges from the trees, she takes in the familiar scene of an enraged Oliver looming over a felled body.

"Well, Oliver, I see you're connecting with our new friends," she remarks, joining him to look down at the man who is slowly rising while gingerly touching his bruised face.

Hunter extends his hand to Felicity, saying, "Miss Smoak, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am Captain Hunter. Please don't hit me."

She accepts his handshake, giving him a dimpled grin, which further irritates her brooding partner.

Felicity accepts his handshake with a sympathetic smile. "Oliver's not handling the--"

Oliver gives her a withering look, saying, "Stop."

She cringes. "Oh. You have mad face. I've stopped. You can hit him again."

**> \---->|<\----<**

The operational unit is small, composed of a shy, young British radioman, five French nationals including Jean-Paul, and Hunter. Felicity notices that the French fighters are older, except for a well-built, aristocratic man called Anton  who seems equally comfortable speaking English or his native tongue. Last names are not revealed during introductions and she doubts their given names are authentic.

Felicity's arrival in the all-male camp enthralls the war-weary saboteurs. For the most part, they seem content to just contemplate her every move, savor the sound of her voice and soak in her loveliness. Except for Anton, who assails her with his smooth Continental charm. After kissing her hand, he claims it for his own, stroking her palm with his thumb as he blathers on about the divine intervention that has blessed them with her angelic presence.

She feels the heat of Oliver's glare. He abruptly faces Hunter and demands, "We need to talk."

Hunter tilts his head in the direction of a canvas tent to one side of the clearing. "This way."

Oliver holds out his hand for Felicity's. "Oh!" she reacts, yanking her fingers from Anton's clutches, informing the Frenchman, "I'm going to need that back."

Oliver claims her hand as she falls into step at his side and smiles at his clenched jaw. "I guess I'm invited too."

The tent's interior is as primitive as the rest of the camp. Hunter gestures for Felicity to take the canvas chair while he and Oliver stand, their tension sucking all the oxygen from the cramped space.

Felicity imagines how awesome it would be to have a magical tent like the Weasleys' in the Goblet of Fire. She occasionally entertains a favorite fantasy: Escaping reality to lead a life at Hogwarts. Sure it was dangerous there too, but on some days, castles, spells and wizards are an enticing alternative to the high-wire, bloody stress of being part of Team Arrow.

"You have no right to bring us here, to involve her, in whatever mission you're running," Oliver declares with unbridled heat.

Felicity raises her hand with a mock wave. "Hey, _her_ is sitting right here."

"I assure you, _both_ of you," Hunter begins, making a point to include Felicity, "This decision was not made lightly. We weighed all the risks before choosing you as players. Believe me, this option was the lesser of evils."

"For who?" Oliver demands.

"For Miss Smoak," Hunter answers. "In the end, we felt that she had the best skills – and the inherent right – to restore her future."

"Restore her...?"

"Without our intervention now, in the midst of World War Two, Felicity Smoak will never be born, will never draw breath. The possibility of her life, and perhaps millions of others, will be erased."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Who the hell are you?" Oliver barks, his hands gripping Hunter's jacket.

"You're not the only one living a dual life, Mr. Queen," Hunter replies with cool detachment.

Oliver releases him and steps back. Felicity scrutinizes Hunter, her neurons ablaze with activity.

Hunter straightens his clothing, eyeing Oliver before resuming his account. "Some of us have specialized abilities that can be misunderstood so we divide our identities. As the Arrow, you wear a hood and mask in a crusade to save your city. Whereas I travel through time to realign history."

"Answer his question!" Felicity demands, standing to challenge him. "Who. Are. You?"

"I am the Time Master."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"The Time Master," Felicity repeats in disbelief. "Sorry, but you just buried the needle on my BS meter."

"You are understandably skeptical about time travel, "Hunter remarks. "But soon, your friend Barry Allen will undergo a transformation that will lead him back in time to revisit his childhood."

"He's a forensic scientist. In a coma. Not a superhero," she drawls sarcastically.

Hunter sighs, choosing a different tactic. "There is an artery – a superhighway – connecting all chapters of time," he clarifies. "It is accessible to only a few individuals, such as myself, who have mastered the ability to enter and follow the pathway linking the past, present and future."

"Why should we believe you?" Oliver counters.

"You may not trust me--"

"We don't," Felicity and Oliver affirm in stereo.

"And I can't blame you." Hunter admits. "Except at this point, what choice do you have but to play this out? If this is all a hoax--"

"Or hallucination," Felicity submits.

"Or a bad burrito. Whatever," Hunter proposes, "What are you risking by accepting this at face value?"

Exchanging a loaded glance with Felicity, Oliver replies, "My partner and I need to talk."

"Of course. Take your time," Hunter acquiesces, stepping out of the tent.

"Didn't he already take it," Felicity grumbles.

Oliver raises a quizzical brow.

"Our time. He took it away from us. If you believe this malarkey. That guy's chock full o' nuts," Felicity adds.

"He might be right though," Oliver speculates.

"Don't be drinking the Kool-Aid, Oliver," she warns.

"I'm not. But maybe our best option is to go along as if his story is reality, at least for the short term. We can always pull out and go our own way if things start to go south," he proposes.

She nods slowly, weighing their choices, lost in thought. "You really believe that we’ve been timejacked by Hunter?”

“Timejacked?” he repeats. “That’s a thing?”

“You’ve got a better word for it?” she challenges him with a raised eyebrow.

“Actually, no. It’s strangely perfect,” he admits.

“Okay,” Felicity agrees. “I'm willing to play his little game for now, until we know more and can see a way out of this scam. With caution and due diligence."

Sensing her unease, Oliver places his palms on her slender shoulders. Felicity draws courage and solace from the warm weight of these familiar, strong hands that have protected, touched and carried her through other perils. Time after time. 

"Felicity, in the years I was away, I saw things, experienced mystical things, that cannot be proved or explained. This feels like one of those things," Oliver shares.

"So your spidey sense is tingling?" Felicity surmises with a familiar head tilt. He remembers the red pen.

"How is time travel a harder sell than a guy who's half spider?" Oliver asks.

"It's not," she says with perky pats of his chest. "They're both equally bogus. But fun to think about."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Have you heard of Vandal Savage?" Hunter asks. Night is falling and they are huddled around a small camp stove. The evening meal was meager, most of it scooped from tin cans, leaving Felicity jonesing for a hot, juicy Big Belly Burger.

"Just legends," Oliver reflects. "Supposed to be immortal. Dangerous guy. Formidable fighting skills."

"He's not a legend," Hunter says. "Vandal is a fierce warrior who thrives on global conflict. He's recently breached our timeline. We believe he is here now, sharing highly-sensitive information with The Third Reich."

"What kind of information?" Felicity asks.

"The kind that builds atomic bombs."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"And this is gonna work, how?" Felicity wonders aloud.

"We intercept atomic secrets, sabotage their science, stop the immortal, find our missing people and return to 2014," Oliver ticks off the list as he unfolds two sleeping rolls inside the small tent that he took from Hunter.

"Oh. I was just talking about getting through tonight," she admits, chewing her lower lip as she surveys their tight quarters. "But we can do your stuff too."

"Felicity. I offered to take you back to the beach house," he reminds her.

"Which was a palace compared to this," she sighs.  "But that would put me back on the bouncing bicycle followed by another bike ride tomorrow just to get back here. I didn't think my _derrière_ could handle that option."

"Your what?" he asks with a gentle grin.

" _Derrière_ , Oliver," she repeats, looking over her shoulder at her hips. "When in France..."

He can't stop his eyes from casting down to admire her shapely behind.

"Made you look," she teases.

Oliver clears his throat and becomes unduly focused on sweeping small rocks from their humble floor.

If she did not know better, Felicity would suspect that her mild flirting had embarrassed Oliver for the second time since they left Starling City. This new dynamic is a bit intoxicating. She savors the heady feeling, this notion that she has the power to get under his skin and hold his attention, which is feeling decidedly less platonic.

The idea of Felicity roughing it in a primitive camp in northern France is as preposterous as imagining Oliver in a clown car at the circus. The night temperature is plummeting. The canvas tent helps to block the drafts, but provides no extra warmth. Dressing for bed means adding more layers and wraps to endure the inescapable chill. She’s Myrna Loy, dammit, not Crocodile Dundee. The woolen blankets are thin and scratchy. Sleeping - make that lying - on the ground is a new and unwelcome experience. 

Oliver fills the small tent even as he beds down. Felicity wonders why he has chosen to share such close quarters with her while the other men are snoozing outside. She has spent countless vertical nights with the Arrow, but sleeping next to Oliver **_again_** is just absurd. Fidgeting with her rucksack, she kneels on her bedding and begins to babble.

"So. Felicity and Oliver are in France to stop the Nazis from unleashing nuclear apocalypse. An immortal warrior is screwing with the timeline. I'm spending the night in a tiny tent with a large man. A muscular man. Not large. Well, large where it matters. Oh. No. Not that I would know--"

"Felicity!" he interrupts. "I am sleeping next to you in order to keep one of those lonely men out there from taking my place."

"Oh," she gulps. "O-o-o-h."

"In case you haven't noticed, they look at you like a starving man drools over a ham sandwich," he explains.

"I don't know, Oliver. They seem like decent guys to me," she says.

"This is war, Felicity," Oliver continues, his voice softening. "It's been weeks, maybe months, since they've seen a woman, particularly a woman who looks... like you."

Pulling on a second pair of socks, Felicity pauses, absorbing his compliment. It's the first time he's alluded to, or admitted that he's even noticed, her appearance.

"You mean a blonde?" she fishes, her impish smile swallowed by darkness.

"Yes, Felicity," he deadpans. "They're captivated by your blondness."

She giggles, slips inside her blankets, facing him although she can barely make out his profile. She endures an hour of discomfort, twisting, burrowing and shifting in her nest of blankets. The earth beneath her is unforgiving. The relentless cold seeps into her bones.

Next to her, Oliver finally asks quietly, "Problem, Felicity?"

"I am turning into an ice sculpture," she fusses. "Even my hair is freezing. How did you survive this, Oliver?"

He ignores her question, reaches across and easily tugs Felicity to his chest along with her disheveled cocoon of blankets. Tucking her head under his chin, Oliver wraps his arms around her back and drapes a leg around her chilled ones, enveloping her in an immediate wall of warmth.

"Better?" his voice rumbles beneath her.

Felicity releases a muffled sigh. "Mmmmm, you're like a really big toaster."

Oliver feels her relaxing against him as her breathing slows. He tries to disregard the lushness of her body pressed intimately to his. In his pre-island life, he was a voracious consumer of women, easy pickings that he enjoyed and discarded without a second thought. As a rich playboy, to the manor born, he had never wanted for anything so he valued nothing. But the God-forsaken island of Lian Yu bankrupted the Queen name and the entitlement it carried.  In his deprivation, he grew to see money and prestige as a vanity he now disdains. Honestly, he asks himself, is there a more useless creature than the son of a rich man?

Felicity now sleeps soundly in his embrace, her breaths even and soothing against his neck. In this private moment, snuggled unawares against his chest, their legs entangled, she is his. Her silken strength a perfect fit against his jagged, broken edges. Oliver brings his palm up to cradle her golden head, bestowing a gentle kiss on her delicate brow. In his marrow, he knows his hands have never held such wealth.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	7. Bugging Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity make plans to neutralize an immortal time-jumping villain as they decamp for their first mission while Jean-Paul observes the crazy chemistry of Olicity. Felicity adapts to the 24/7 presence of her bodyguard/partner/bed-warmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a transition chapter as Oliver and Felicity prepare to enter a Nazi-controlled community. They will be adopting undercover names and hopefully, that will not be confusing to readers. I am relying on my high school French class and Google Translator for the foreign language text so please forgive any mistakes. 
> 
> Special thanks to geniewithwifi for promoting this story on tumblr and other social network sites! I am gobsmacked by the positive reception Timejacked has received. Your comments and kudos keep me going!

He is gone when Felicity awakens after sunrise. Missing his warmth, she works out the kinks from sleeping in a weird position, practically on top of Oliver. Again. Compared to the cold hard ground, he makes a decent mattress, she thinks, wondering at the bizarre chain of events that have led her to sleeping with – and on – her platonic partner. Although that's certainly not the most surreal aspect of the past 48 hours.

She hears Oliver's voice, verifying that he is nearby. She cards her fingers through her bird's nest of hair. Since she slept in her clothes, she's as presentable as possible in a wartime wilderness.

The aroma of coffee compels her outside. "Coffee. Where?" she begs in desperation. There's a collision of well-meaning men who seem hell-bent to serve her every need. The smallest of them, Jean-Paul, emerges from the melee with a brimming tin cup which he presents with a wink and an exaggerated bow.

" _Bonjour, Félicité_ ," he greets her.

"Thank you, Jean-Paul," she replies, taking a rapturous huff of caffeinated steam. "You're a true lifesaver."

Breakfast comes from tins again and Felicity wonders how long these men have subsisted on canned goods. No wonder they all have such an air of haggardness. After eating, Felicity attempts to slip unnoticed into the woods but Oliver falls into step as her escort.

"Oliver, I just need a few minutes alone."

"I will give you some privacy, Felicity. But you're going nowhere alone until we've returned to the 21st century," he says with quiet determination.

She rolls her eyes in resignation, but he does yield her the appropriate space to tend to business with some measure of her dignity intact.

"Do we have a strategy yet, Oliver?" Felicity asks during their leisurely walk back to camp. "An atomic bomb in Nazi hands could change the outcome of the war."

"We have problems in need of solutions. That's a normal day for us."

"And me without my apps," she moans sadly.

"We may not have technology, but our quiver's not empty."

"Nice wordsmithing, Mr. Queen," she grins.

Oliver rests his hand at her waist as they cross the forest floor. "We know what needs to happen, historically, in order for the Allies to defeat The Third Reich," he says.

"But Savage. How can we win against an immortal time traveler? If we defeat him once, what's to prevent him from looping back until he wins?"

"Hunter thinks that Savage's breach of the time span is a unique one-time occurrence."

"Like he punched a hole," Felicity speculates.

"Yes, a hole in the time wall that is certain to collapse, again according to Hunter," Oliver adds.

"But we can't know when," she mulls, chewing her lower lip. "Even if that's the case, that we only need to defeat him once, how can we fight an immortal? Besides, he sounds really mean," she frets.

Oliver is quiet for a few moments as he considers the question. "I kill him. Repeatedly. As a distraction. While the Resistance steals the Intel."

"But Oliver, maybe our best plan is to avoid the fight. And the killing. And the ever-so-slight possibility that Savage might succeed in killing you right back."

"That won't happen," he says tersely.

"Remember the part about me going nowhere without you? I need you, Oliver, whole and uninjured, if we're going to get home."

Pulling her closer to his side, he nods in reluctant agreement and she forges ahead with her rapid stream of thinking.

"We have to live within the parameters of the 1940s, but so does Savage."

"I don't follow."

"He can't just email the atomic secrets to Hitler. He's probably carrying a satchel--"

Oliver has caught up to her logic and interjects, "On a train. By air or car."

"Exactly! Over bridges, roads and railways. In a plane," Felicity adds.

"All of which can be blown up!" Oliver concludes.

"We don't have to destroy the messenger," Felicity announces in triumph.

"Just the message."

**> \---->|<\----<**

As soon as they arrive back at camp, it becomes obvious that the team is preparing to bug out. Their little tent has been collapsed and packed for travel. Hunter pores over a map, drawing Oliver's immediate interest.

Felicity squeezes his forearm, saying, "I'm going to gather our things."

"I'll be there in a minute," he adds, giving a quick visual check of her perimeter as she strolls away.

This is like having a full-time bodyguard, Felicity muses as she retrieves 'Madame's hairbrush' to restore her mane to its accustomed ponytail. She wonders how many celebrities have fantasies about fooling around with their muscular protectors. Because she's been sleeping with hers and this trend looks to be a continuing pattern at least as long as they're stuck in Hitlerland. Their nights have been G-rated so far. Well, maybe PG-13 because she's fairly certain Oliver's _arrow_ was primed for a target during that first night pressed together in the itty-bitty bed. He'd been asleep and apparently dreaming. Felicity contemplates who might have co-starred in Oliver's happy dream. She hasn't forgotten his words on the beach. "This isn't how I imagined getting you naked." There's going to be a future conversation about his slip of the tongue, she decides. Definitely. At some point. In the next eighty years.

"A conversation about what?"

"Holy cheese fries, Oliver! You scared me," she yelps.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I would have knocked. If we had a door. Or walls."

He kneels to toss his few possessions into the duffle bag, zipping it with finality.

"Did you find out where we're going?" she asks.

"The Resistance had an operative tailing Savage."

"Had?" she asks.

"Before Savage separated his head from his shoulders."

Felicity cringes and tries to avoid the visual created by his blunt words.

Oliver caresses her upper arm as reassurance.

"The good news is that British intelligence has intercepted Nazi dispatches."

"Enigma!" Felicity exclaims, then slaps a hand over her mouth before whispering, "Oliver, shut me up before I tell the Allies' biggest secret to Adolph himself. I'm a blurter. You know I am. Anybody will tell you. No one's lips are looser than mine."

Oliver expels a small huff of laughter before continuing in hushed tones. "A coded message came through this morning on the shortwave. Savage is traveling through northern France by rail to Belgium, planning to connect with German agents."

"We're in northern France. Can we intercept his route?" she asks in a quiet voice.

"That's our hope. You and I have a train to catch."

**> \---->|<\----<**

They hike through the day with the goal of reaching the railhead at Cherbourg by nightfall. Between conversations with Anton and Jean-Paul, they learn that the French Underground is composed of independent partisan groups with a single unifying trait: a palpable hatred of their German invaders. If captured, Freedom Fighters face imprisonment, torture and death at the hands of cruel Nazi commanders. There are no recorded memberships. Code names offer some protection from German infiltrators, which are all too common.

The group separates on the outskirts of the harbor city. Jean-Paul is assigned to guide Oliver and Felicity to a safe house in the city. Before separating, Hunter reviews the plan, vaguely committing to meet them soon. 

Three bicycles await them just inside the forest's edge. "Yay, more bicycles," Felicity announces with mock excitement.

Missing her sarcasm, Jean-Paul answers, "Is wonderful, _non_?"

With a genuine smile, Felicity agrees, "Yes, just what we needed."

"In the city, it is best to not talk. You speak any _Français?_ " he asks kindly.

Felicity looks to Oliver expectantly, but he shakes his head. "Just what little I remember from high school."

"You don't speak French?" she exclaims in amazement.

"No, Felicity. Why does that surprise you?" he counters.

"Because you wrap that tongue around everything else." Then, blushing furiously, she blurts, "There's something wrong with me. Languages, I mean. Mandarin! Russian! Argus....."

Jean-Paul looks between them curiously, trying to make sense of their conversation.

Oliver leans down to Felicity and says quietly, "Argus speaks English."

Turning to Jean-Paul, Oliver says, "We will let you do the talking. Anything else?"

" _Oui_ , perhaps new names?" their escort suggests.

"That will be fine. I will go by Phillipe," Oliver declares.

"You're not a Phillipe," she asserts, frowning.

"Pierre?" he guesses.

"God, no."

He scrubs his face in frustration. "I give up. Felicity, who am I?"

" _Sébastien_ ," she dubs him with finality. "And I'm _Elise_."

With that settled, Felicity grabs her duffel, heads for the shadows and adds, "And Elise is putting on girl clothes."

Jean-Paul falls into step with Oliver. With a soft chuckle, the Frenchman says, "You cannot control your woman."

Oliver's expression reveals nothing.

Jean-Paul adds with a wink, "Then you got a good one!"

**> \---->|<\----<**


	8. Eternal Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they reach the city, Oliver and Felicity encounter victims and perpetrators of Holocaust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurt my heart to write this chapter, but you cannot depict World War II in Europe without addressing the suffering of The Holocaust, especially when experienced by Felicity, whose faith connects her directly to the ongoing genocide. Understandably, this is a fluff-free chapter for Oliver and Felicity, but will deepen their relationship as he helps her cope with horror and grief.  
> [CONTENT WARNING: This chapter includes violence typical of Nazi treatment of Jews and members of the French Underground.]

**CHAPTER 8**

Reaching the city's outskirts, they abandon the bikes in a pile of wooden crates.

" _Sébastien_ , it must appear that you – _quel est le mot pour ça?_ " Jean-Paul asks, as he hobbles in a small circle.

"Limps!" Felicity guesses.

Jean-Paul taps his nose and beams at her. " _Oui_! Limps. The young _monsieur_ must limps so ze Nazi swine will not conscript him. Or _au revoir_ , _France_."

"Oh believe me, he's had experience," Felicity volunteers. "With limping. Not conscripting."

It is close to sunset as they enter Cherbourg, where rich odors combine, telling of the passage of horses, fish barrels, food carts and life before deodorant. The fresh salt air from the English Channel makes the smelly thoroughfare more bearable. The walkways are crowded with civilians and uniformed German soldiers. Bicyclists on their way home thread their way expertly around the throngs of military vehicles. Local municipal buildings sport the French flag alongside the flying red and black swastika.

Oliver notices that the color has left Felicity's face and he follows her line of sight to the word 'Jude' crudely painted on an empty storefront. His hand wraps around her ice-cold one.

"Fe--," he stops himself. "Hey, you okay?" He searches her face until her dazed eyes meet his.

"I wasn't prepared..." her voice shakes with emotion.

"Our stop is not far," Jean-Paul whispers.

A whistling noise, followed by a woman's shriek shatters the routine commotion. The street scene deflates as all activity chokes, attention drawn to the tragedy unfolding in their midst. A family of four huddles in the gutter, detained at the back of a truck. Their fates have been sealed by the plain yellow star patches crudely stitched on their threadbare coats.

The harsh voice of a German commander spews guttural hatred at a woman kneeling on the sidewalk. He raises a black riding crop bringing it down in a vicious arc to slash the woman's face. She glares back in utter defiance.

 _"Sie hat die Schweine versteckt!"_   he accuses. _"Verbrecherin!"_

Again he strikes, opening a gash on her shoulder.

Every muscle in Oliver's form coils to strike, his tactical mind determining which response will prove most surgically effective in protecting the victims while destroying the threat.

Releasing Felicity's hand, he takes a single step away before she slowly slumps unconscious to the cobblestones, her head coming to rest on his boot. Changing gears, Oliver drops to lift her, noting that the crowd's attention is still riveted by the screaming Nazi.

Jean-Paul jerks his head in the direction of a nearby alley, where Oliver escapes with Felicity in his arms. As soon as he clears the corner, a pistol fires.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Marlene Dietrich serenades Felicity from a phonograph, crooning the song "Awake in A Dream." Stretched on a small sofa, Felicity dreads opening her eyes. It's nice here in the darkness, lost in the sweet refrains of an old love song, where there are no yellow star patches, no children behind razor wire, no hell-bound cattle cars of innocents.

The tableau of suffering she just witnessed in the streets of Cherbourg crushes her. Felicity can no longer deny the tangible evidence surrounding them. She is not awake in a dream. She is living the nightmare. This is Holocaust. It is here, with her now, no longer confined to the slick pages of history books or black and white documentary film footage. Mass slaughter is methodically underway, at countless locations east of where she lies. 

Warm reassuring hands touch her, willing her to find the strength to return, to look at the world again. Oliver kneels at her side, his shadowed eyes searching her face.

Felicity reaches for him, her face crumpling as the sobs rise in her throat. He lifts her like a child, embraced in his lap as she clings to him, shedding anguished, eternal tears that fall like blood, for the lost generations of her people.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Their hostess, who goes by the name Margot, appears to be ancient, her papery skin bearing reddish-purple bruises from every slight bump. Yet she moves with surprising alacrity. Capped with faded, strawberry-blond hair, Margot is fidgety and smokes like a fiend. Severe food rations have starved her to a bony wraith. A fierce bony wraith.

"Nazis, the filthy jackals," she spits out as she spreads her small dining table with a limited assortment of cold meats, cheeses and crusty bread. "They are a poison. What you see, this is not _France_. This is not who she is."

Felicity attempts to participate in the meal, but food has no taste for her. She lets Oliver, posing as 'Sebastien,' fulfill their social duties, talking easily with this small, tenacious woman who risks death simply by welcoming strangers such as them to her humble table.

Margot addresses Felicity twice, calling her ‘Elise,’ and when she fails to respond, Oliver nudges her. The elderly lady laughs, saying, "All these little faux names. We forget ourselves, _n'est-ce pas?_ "

After supper, exhaustion claims Felicity and the only rational thought she can entertain is finding a pillow. But Margot insists she make use of the claw-footed bathtub before retiring. I'll probably drown, she thinks, but would never risk offending this tiny, brave woman.

The bath, as is usually the case, was a divine notion, the steamy water leaching the grime and aches from her overtaxed body. Margot has left her a silk gown and wrap. Felicity loosely braids her wet hair and enters the modest guest room to find an inviting bed with well-worn covers turned back.

As she eases onto the thin mattress, removing her glasses, she hears the apartment's front door latching, followed by Oliver's familiar footfall. He enters the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," she answers. "I didn't realize you left."

"Just needed some air," he explains.

He slides out of his boots, strips down to his briefs and shifts into bed. It is only their third night together, but Felicity needs – aches for – the security of his presence, the weight of him anchored beside her, his heartbeat, his breath on her skin. If he had chosen to bed down in the hallway, she would have pulled up a rug and joined him. On this night. Because of what she has witnessed this day.

Oliver has no words. Nothing he can say will ease her shock or assuage her grieving. There are no sympathetic platitudes for "Sorry about the ongoing genocide of your people." But he innately senses her fragility, wrapping her from head to foot with his body. It is the only solace left him to give her.

"Oliver, what happened to that woman," she tentatively asks, her words falling soft against his neck. "What had she done?"

He weighs his words carefully before answering, ultimately deciding on the unvarnished truth because she has surely earned that from him.

"She was executed for hiding a Jewish family above her storefront."

Her extended silence causes him to assume – to hope – she has fallen asleep. But then, in a child-like voice, she whimpers, "I need to hear you say my name."

Oliver tips her face up to his, murmuring "Goodnight," before kissing her with heartbreaking tenderness, whispering "Felicity" as a prayer against her lips.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	9. The Train Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity leave Margot's safe house for a train trip in hopes of spotting Savage and "the package." Oliver proves to be a helluva kisser. A character is arrested. And Felicity goes flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are dark days indeed, as was brought home for Felicity in the previous chapter. But she and Oliver are up and on the move again to make sure the Allied victory is secure. The dramatic incident on the train was drawn from an actual event involving French Freedom Fighters.  
> I can't tell you how encouraging it is to receive your kind comments and kudos. I am humbled and grateful.

In the morning, Jean-Paul brings croissants to go with the espresso that Margot has poured.

He kisses Felicity's hand in greeting, his eyes expressing an apology for the horrifying incident they witnessed yesterday. She pats the weathered hand clasping hers, touched by his kindness.

Settling in the kitchen, they share the pastry and coffee. Freshly bathed, Oliver joins them, resting his hands on Felicity's shoulders.

" _Bonjour, Sébastien_ ," Jean-Paul welcomes him to their midst. "You are ready for your _première_ mission?"

Oliver nods as he swallows a tasty bite. "I am." Glancing at Felicity, he clears his throat and adds, "I'm thinking it might be best for me to handle this on my own today. Let Elise stay here a bit longer?"

"No!" Felicity explodes, pivoting to face him with alarm. "We have an agreement, Ol--. We – you and I – we stay together." Then, in her loud voice, "We're **not** splitting up."

Sighing, Oliver admits, "Yeah, I didn't think that would work. But I had to give it a shot." Turning back to Jean-Paul, he asks, "You have instructions?"

" _Oui_ , the plan is for you to be on ze 10 o'clock train this morning. We think Savage will be carrying the package we want. He is a big man, like yourself. Strong. Dark hair and eyes. We have an operative in a position of power with ze railroad so you should not be _harcelé_ , how you say, bothered at the station."

"And if our target is there?" Felicity asks.

"Do nothing. But it will allow you to see him."

"To size him up?" Oliver assumes.

" _Oui_. Learn his face. Make certain he has ze package. Get off at ze next stop," Jean-Paul explains. "I will travel on ze same train, but not with you. After, we will plan how to _sabotage_ Savage's mission."

He speaks in French to Margot and she bustles away, quickly returning with a pencil and paper. Jean-Paul sketches two overlapping crosses. "This is the _Croix de Lorraine_ , the _symbole_ of the _Résistance_. If we are separated, watch for this."

"Otherwise," Margot warns, "Trust no one."

Jean-Paul scribbles words onto the paper before advising them, "Memorize this poem. It is proof you are friends of the Underground."

Felicity and Oliver scan the page, committing the scrawled lines to memory before handing it back. Margot snatches it, strikes a match, setting the paper ablaze before dropping it into the sink, then crumbling the remains into a can of used coffee grounds.

"The Gestapo and the French Milice are hunting us," Jean-Paul warns. "Be very careful."

Jean-Paul taps the table thoughtfully, exchanging loaded glances with Margot, then says, "There was news on the street this morning. Much excitement."

Oliver sips his espresso, showing little interest, which raises Felicity's antenna instantly.

"It seems the Nazi Commandant has been found dead."

"Oh?" Felicity responds, concealing her suspicion.

" _Oui_. It seems he choked to death. On his riding crop."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Margot provides Felicity with a skirt, sweater, cloth coat and simple loafers. Living in strange clothes, under a false name, where nothing is familiar, is disheartening. So she pulls her hair into its usual cheerful ponytail, hoping to reclaim some small sense of her own identity.

"Thank you, Margot, for giving us sanctuary," Felicity says, surprised by the tears that sting her eyes as she hugs their diminutive new ally.

Margot grips Felicity's shoulders and holds her gaze as she intensely asserts, "It is left to us to carry the light. And run to the darkness."

Oliver stoops to kiss Margot's cheeks. " _Dieu soit avec vous_ ," she calls after them as they take their leave with Jean-Paul.

Bicycles have reappeared in the hallway. Felicity has newfound respect for Jean-Paul's networking skills. And all of it falls into place without reliance on an IPhone. Amazing, she thinks.

The railway station is about a ten-minute ride through busy morning traffic. Jean-Paul has already secured their tickets and his fellow collaborator waves them through to the passenger boarding dock. At one point, Felicity's eye is caught by a familiar man at the back of the crowd. She cranes her neck for a closer look, but he is already gone. The presence of German officers and troops unnerves Felicity as they enter the train car. Oliver guides her to the back row of seats. They settle side by side, facing the length of the car.

A part of Felicity wants to relish the unique experience of riding in a vintage rail car drawn by a steam locomotive. Before yesterday, she would have been soaking up every delicious detail. But yesterday did happen and now she's too burdened by the malignant evil threatening so many lives.

Oliver's arm has come around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. He gently tips her face toward his, checking on her with a concerned look more expressive than words. Her face relaxes and she releases the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Reassured, Oliver leans back, and makes a quick study of their fellow passengers without appearing too obvious. He spots Jean-Paul midway on the opposite side, but there's no sign of anyone resembling Savage.

The car is nearly full now. When one man walks up the aisle with intentions of taking the facing seat on their row, Oliver raises his foot to rest on the empty bench, blocking access. He moves his hand to Felicity's upper leg and completely invades her space, leaning in, his face inches from hers.

"I'm sorry," Oliver whispers seconds before his lips touch hers. At first she tenses in surprise. Intellectually, Felicity knows this is just a ruse to keep other travelers at bay. But the rest of her totally responds to the kiss.  Because damn. The guy has skills.

When he finally lets her come up for air, the encroaching passenger is long gone, but several disapproving glances are directed their way. He removes his hand from her thigh although the heat remains.

The train makes a jolting lurch forward and gradually gains speed, noisily getting underway. Felicity and Oliver continue to scan the crowd for Savage with the same negative results. No joy. Unless you count the happy dance that Felicity's ovaries have been doing ever since he woke them up with that kiss.

The miles of beautiful French countryside pass by, making it easy to momentarily forget they are at war. Until four armed men wearing blue uniforms and berets stand to survey the passengers with an air of authority. Oliver presumes them to be Milice, the French branch of the Gestapo. Their attention targets Jean-Paul, who answers their glare with a nonchalant grin. They approach him with aggressive purpose while those passengers in their wake shrink back, hoping to avoid their interest.

Oliver's demeanor shifts from carefree traveler to wary adversary, sliding imperceptibly forward while broadening his stance. He shoots Felicity a heads-up look.

Jean-Paul and the troops converse in their native language, giving the impression they are old acquaintances who have had a falling out.

" _Vous êtes en état d'arrestation!_ " shouts the troop leader as his henchman jerks Jean-Paul from his seat and handcuffs him. Felicity jolts forward, horrified to witness their friend's arrest, but Oliver stills her with the touch of his hand. Poised on the edge of his seat, he has now effectively blocked her from sight with his broad shoulders.

Two of the Milice troops drag Jean-Paul to the head of the car. Their leader pivots and drills Oliver with a cold, accusing stare.

Goodbye, Oliver.

Hello, Arrow.

Instantly on his feet, he slams his boot into the large window beside Felicity, kicking glass shards loose from the frame. He scoops her up, urgently saying, "Tuck and roll!" before hurling her out the window.

Felicity gasps, "What?" even as she is airborne, managing to pull her limbs close as she comes down hard in a clump of weeds, then rolling down the incline into a ditch. Tufts of dirt are erupting around her as she hears sharp hissing noises. Holy crap, she realizes, they're shooting at me.

Spiked with adrenaline, Felicity scrambles to her feet, ducking as she runs toward the nearest cover, a grove of trees, where she hunkers down to view the train curving out of sight. She is beginning to shake uncontrollably, her muscles knotting and craving warmth.

A large hand grips her shoulder and she emits a squeaky scream, silenced by his palm over her mouth.

"Felicity, it's me."

She collapses against Oliver in relief as he holds her, absorbing her shock. Felicity rests in his arms momentarily before shoving him hard.

"You threw me out of a window!" she exclaims. "And from a moving train! Who does that?"

"There weren't many options, Felicity," he counters.

"You're out of your freaking--" she freezes, gaping at him.

"What's wrong, Felicity?"

Her fingers reach toward his shirt to touch the wet, scarlet stains there.

Oliver glances down and checks his abdomen. "It's not me."

He jerks her coat open, his eyes searching frantically. Felicity's right flank is soaked with blood. He reaches for her as her legs give way.

**> \--->|<\---<**


	10. Our Friend Madeleine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver seeks help for a wounded Felicity and they make new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dilemma of this chapter is: How to realistically address a medical emergency in rural France during the 1940s? Especially when the injured party is on the run in an occupied foreign country. And there's the complication of a language barrier. Who started this hot mess?
> 
> I hope that my online research has accurately informed me as to what resources and knowledge were available in that specific setting. But, if I've made a glaring mistake (or two!), please feel free to share.
> 
> Thank you to those of you who are faithfully following this story. I am in your debt.

"Oh, it's me," she says, her eyes widened in surprise.

“Yeah, it’s you,” he comments tersely.

Oliver carefully eases Felicity into a reclining position, letting her head rest against his rolled-up jacket. He pulls the fabric of her coat away and extracts a small knife from his pocket.

"I didn't feel anything," she murmurs. "Shouldn't this hurt?"

"Oh, it will," he answers. "The adrenaline will wear off soon."

Oliver cuts the side seam of her sweater from the waist up and folds it over to uncover her bloody midriff. He has nothing to clean the wound, but it looks as if the grazing bullet clipped her ribs, leaving a long bleeding gash along her right side. It should be stitched, but again, they have no supplies.

"Felicity," he says calmly, "You were lucky. The wound's not deep."

"You have _'but'_ face," she observes. "The wound's not deep _but_..."

"But we have to move now to get you to a safer place where we can clean and stitch this," Oliver adds as he carefully tugs her sweater and coat back in place. He stands and walks to her uninjured side, preparing to lift her. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

And that's no exaggeration. He carries her for miles, away from the rail tracks, across fields and dirt lanes, to avoid contact with the enemy. Finally, they reach a stream of clear, cold water, which Oliver catches in his hands for Felicity to drink before slaking his own thirst.

Ashen with pain and blood loss, she is about done in. Oliver scans the horizon in every direction, needing to find a safe haven, knowing it's a crapshoot. There are a few small farms within his field of vision so, in the end, he relies on pure intuition to choose one.

An involuntary moan escapes Felicity as he gathers her to his chest for the next leg of their journey. "Not much farther. I promise," he assures, kissing her temple as he resumes walking, a deep line creasing his brow.

Rustic haystacks dot an alfalfa field along the unpaved road leading to a cluster of trees and buildings. Oliver crosses the ditch to enter the field, approaching a haystack to lay Felicity at its base.

"Oliver?" she questions his action.

"I'm coming right back, Felicity," he assures, his hand warm on hers. "I just need to check this place out."

"Mm'kay. Be careful," she murmurs, her eyes closing.

Oliver keeps to the field, advancing quickly and quietly, maintaining a low profile. He thinks this was once a thriving dairy farm, but the only livestock now is a single Jersey cow, a couple of goats and a yard filled with chickens. He looks inside each of the two barns, noting the contents and viability as hiding places.

Firming his resolve, Oliver shifts from stealth mode, straightening and walking to the farmhouse's front door. He knocks on the white-washed wood and waits. In moments, a thin woman with a pleasant face appears at the door flanked by twin toddlers peeking from behind her skirt. Her eyes turn wary as she spies the bloodstains on his clothing.

"Hello. _Bonjour_ ," Oliver greets them, cursing himself for his limited French vocabulary. He spreads his empty hands to indicate he not a threat.

He points to the crimson stains and then to the nearby field. " _Une femme est_... injured," he stammers. "We need help."

She looks to the field and back to his face.

Taking a chance, Oliver kneels, picks up a small stick and etches the shape of the Resistance symbol, the _Croix de Lorraine_ , in the dirt.

His hope-filled eyes raise to hers. After a moment's study, she gives a slight nod, opening her door and gesturing for him to enter. He obliterates the traced cross with a sweep of his boot.

Oliver stands to his full height, gesturing over his shoulder. " _S'il vous plait... la femme_... I will bring her?"

The French woman nods again in apparent understanding, sending Oliver running back to Felicity's side. Her blue eyes expect him as he makes no effort to quieten his approach.

"Oliver Queen is smiling. Alert the media," she jokes weakly.

"Yeah, he does that when he finds a friend," he remarks, gently raising her to his chest and bearing her toward safety. He hopes.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Her name is _Madeleine_ and Oliver decides she is the closest thing to an angel on this side of heaven. With only a brief look at Felicity's injury, she flies into action, directing Oliver to a bed and gathering supplies. In spite of the communication gaps, they manage to connect on the basic needs of their patient. At one point, Madeleine shoo's him from the room so she can assist Felicity's private needs and make her comfortable in clean clothing.

Leaving Felicity to rest, Madeleine returns to the kitchen where Oliver has been exiled. She unfolds a soft cotton sheet, demonstrating how she wants it torn in wide strips.  " _Bandages, oui?_ " she asks. He is grateful for those random words that are the same in both languages.

Oliver nods and commences to rip the old sheet apart, neatly folding and stacking bandages while she drops needles, scissors and strands of silk thread into boiling water on the stove. From her upper cabinets, she snags iodine, alcohol, peroxide and a large bottle of wine. She takes the top bandage from Oliver's stack, laying it flat beside the dry sink. Producing a large sieve, Madeleine sterilizes it in the rising cloud of steam before showing it to Oliver and pointing to the pot of boiling water.

" _S'il vous plait_?" she asks, requesting his help.

"Of course," he volunteers, draining the heavy pot through the sieve Madeleine holds over a basin on the sink.  

" _Bien!_ " she says, giving him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder on her way to the unfolded bandage, where she lets the purified instruments and thread fall from the upended sieve to dry.

" _Maintenant_ ," Madeleine begins, lifting a goblet and the wine, " _Nous allons soulager sa douleur._ "

Oliver's face registers confusion.

She looks upstairs to Felicity's room and waggles the wine bottle. " _Pour votre femme_!"

"Oh! Before sewing her up. We need to get Felicity drunk," Oliver guesses, taking the wine and glass before climbing the stairs. "Well, this should be eye-opening," he predicts.

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Oviler," Felicity drawls, with the sweetest smile he's ever seen.

"Yes, Felicity," Oliver answers patiently, pouring another splash of wine in her glass.

"You don' have a glass. S'not polite to let me drink alone," she scolds with a giggle.

"It's okay, Felicity. Are you enjoying your wine?" he asks as she takes another gulp.

"I am, Oviler. You know, it's French," she reveals with a knowing glance. "So French."

He fills her glass again and she thanks him with a goofy grin.

"You know, it's not so bad gettin' shot," Felicity shares, her eyes big and blue. "Not as scary as gettin' thrown from a train."

"I'm sorry I scared you, Felicity."

"Thass okay. This time," she decrees, holding up one finger. "But our new rule is... What are we talkin' 'bout, Oviler?"

"Me throwing you off a train," he reminds her, catching her as she tilts sideways in the bed.

"Right! I memember! No throwing Fissity off trains."

Oliver grins, convinced that's probably how three-year-old "Fissity" pronounced her name.

"We're not gonna do that. Any. More," she declares.

"That's a good rule, Felicity. I promise. As long as Nazis aren't shooting at you," he quips, taking the goblet from her hands and shifting her lower on the mattress so her head rests on the pillow. He removes her eyeglasses, folding and setting them on the nightstand.

"Thanng you, Oviler," she coos, sloppily patting his face. "You're nice. 'Swhy I love you so munch."

He stills above her as her eyelids fall closed. Catching the hand that is still waving in the air, he presses her palm to his face, kissing it before letting it slide to his chest, where he captures it in both of his. He rests his eyes on Felicity with her hair loose on the pillow, framing her exquisite features. When Madeleine comes up with the tray of supplies to attend to Felicity's wound, she wonders how long this _Américain_ has stood, transfixed by his _belle femme._

**> \---->|<\----<**


	11. Up and At 'Em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver hovers while Felicity gets back on her feet. Until the Gestapo comes to call and Oliver goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief chapter to tide everyone over until after the holiday. I am grateful to each and every one of you for your following and support. Wishing you full tables and merry hearts!

They stay four days at the farm, Felicity recovering from her wound and Oliver working on neglected tasks needing a man's strength and experience. Each night, he sleeps restlessly on the floor beside her bed, worrying about the possibility of infection and what he will do if her condition worsens. He reassures himself by frequently placing his hand to her brow, relieved that it is cool and dry. With each morning, she seems more like herself, babbling about how she misses her “babies” in the Foundry, what Digg and Roy must be thinking, the possible fate of the other people missing from Starling City.

On the third day, Oliver has insisted, for the umpteenth time, that she let him check her stitches and she swats him with a soup spoon, to the squealing delight of Madeleine's twins. These precious children are an endless source of fun, a balm for war-weary souls. They follow Oliver's every step, in hopes of piggyback rides atop his shoulders. Felicity revels in the sight of him patiently doting on these toddlers, imagining the father he will one day be.

They both worry about the fate of Madeleine's missing husband. Has he been conscripted, forced to work for The Third Reich in Germany? Or is he dead? Madeleine has given Oliver a few pieces of clothing from a man's closet, giving them hope that she expects him to return home. Someday.

It is on the fifth morning, as Oliver and Felicity prepare to leave, that the Gestapo arrives.

**> \---->|<\----<**

It has taken no time to gather a few meager necessities, gifts from their open-hearted hostess, into a pillowcase that Madeleine converted into a drawstring bag. The children contribute little odds and ends – a potato, a spinning top, a storybook – so that Felicity can lavish them with gratitude while Oliver sneaks the items back to their rightful places.

No trace remains of their presence. Oliver has buried Felicity's ruined sweater while their other blood-stained clothing was salvaged by Madeleine's liberal use of peroxide. In this decade, especially now that everything is rationed, nothing is wasted or discarded. Felicity smoothes a quilt over the freshly-laundered linens when Madeleine's panicked voice downstairs splinters the tranquility of the house.

 _"Ils arrivent! Les Nazis! Vous devez vous cacher!"_ she screams, seeing the military vehicle's approach on the dirt road.

Upstairs, Oliver reaches for Felicity.

"You're not going to throw me out the window," she gasps, part-question and part-accusation.

With a roll of his eyes, he throws the knapsack over his shoulder, pushing Felicity into a corner behind a chifferobe.  He gives her cheek a quick kiss. "No," he says with a wink. "Just me." He shoves the heavy piece of furniture to obscure her presence. And then he is gone.

With a last check of the bedroom, Oliver easily steps through the window and climbs down the back of the farmhouse. He sprints to the nearest barn, concealing the rucksack with some feedbags. Scanning the wall of implements, he selects a pitchfork and a hoe that he sharpened two days ago. He moves forward to the barn's shadowed entrance where he has an open view of the farmhouse. His hands flex, craving his bow and a full quiver.

The German car arrives in an ominous cloud of dust. Madeleine opens her door and steps to the threshold, a kitchen towel in her hands, a cordial smile on her face. The children cling to her apron with chubby fists.

An officer and five soldiers exit the vehicle with the commander leading the way. He disperses the troops to search the farm while he questions the _femme de la maison_.

The soldiers split up. None of them is prepared for the adversary poised in the shadows. Within twelve minutes, the commander who bullies Madeleine in her parlor is unaware he is the sole survivor of his squad. Or that she holds a butcher knife in the folds of her kitchen towel. If he hadn’t threatened her children, she would have let him live.

Five of the six bodies were buried in a drainage pit at the back of the property. Oliver gives the cash from the men's wallets to Madeleine, in gratitude for the protection and care she provided in their time of dire need. They will never see her again.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	12. Zombie Nazi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity leave the farm, taking the rural back roads with a unique passenger riding shotgun. Felicity ponders her role as Oliver's partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear readers, for your wonderful support of this story. Please feel free to leave comments and/or kudos if you're enjoying a journey back in time with Olicity. A familiar face or two will be showing up soon!

Oliver's and Felicity's inventory of possessions has mushroomed from a simple pillowcase knapsack to include guns, ammunition, knives, water canteens, German uniforms, medical kit, a map, compass and a car with a German officer’s corpse in the passenger seat.

"I cannot believe I'm carpooling with a dead guy," Felicity shudders from the backseat.

"He's our protection until we make it back to Cherbourg," Oliver says, steering the vintage car down a dusty, farm-to-market road. Acquiring wheels may be the best thing to happen to them since they landed in war-torn Europe.

"I swear, Oliver, the minute Bernie starts to smell, I'm gone," Felicity vows. In her loud voice.

“When that happens,” he responds, “My choice is to dump him and keep you.”

They're traveling the back roads that Madeleine outlined on a map before their departure. It's the safer choice, but Oliver broods over how the rough ride may be aggravating Felicity's injuries. He has first-hand knowledge of the miseries of damaged ribs.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, missing the benefit of a rearview mirror.

'Like I'm being beaten with a hammer' is the honest answer, so she glibly replies, "I'm good."

But Oliver hears the truth in her voice. The extent of her graphic wound is branded on his retina, along with vivid bruising the bullet caused as it tore through tender tissues, deflecting off her ribs. His hands guided the needle that stitched the gash closed under the close scrutiny of Madeleine, who seemed surprised by the neatness of his handiwork. With the passage of time, there will be a long, narrow scar skimming her ribcage. But for now, her right flank is a horror show of bruises and sewn, bloody flesh.

Oliver still obsesses over the possibility of infection. "Felicity, has penicillin been discovered yet? I mean, are there antibiotics available now, in the forties?"

"I don't know, Oliver. Let me just Google that up for you," she offers with honeyed sarcasm. "Oh, but we'll have to wait about seventy years because Bill Gates isn't even a wiggle in his daddy's pants yet."

Oliver nearly runs them off in a ditch.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity cannot get used to seeing Oliver in a Nazi uniform. He's a sexy beast wearing anything – or nothing – but this garb thoroughly wigs her out. "I’m desperate to get you out of that uniform," she announces, not caring that it comes across with her idiot-savant double meaning.

"Hey, you'd be wearing one too if any of those troopers had been fun-sized," he advises, amused by the image he conjures of petite Felicity swallowed by a German soldier’s regalia. But that thought leads to a vision of her in jackboots and his head goes in a completely inappropriate direction.  He gives himself a mental slap.

Oblivious in the backseat, Felicity mulls over the notion that Oliver thinks of her as fun-sized. Buddy, you have no idea.

Felicity has had ample time at the farm, laid up with her big boo-boo, to consider this new-found closeness with Oliver. Heat has always simmered between them. But in Starling City, their mutual attraction is continually tamped down by the demands of Oliver's public life as CEO and his secret undertaking as The Arrow. The strange events of the past week swept them into each other's arms, literally. The intimacy of living in concert with – and for – each other, feels right, she thinks. Felicity harbors no doubts that Oliver has cared for her since they first met. She senses his affection in his frequent caresses, his compulsive need to protect her, and the fact that he actively pursued and engaged her in all of his interests: his duties to the family empire and his personal crusade for justice.  But, this new thing, sharing of a bedroom? Is the emotionally-unavailable Oliver Queen ready to cross the last divide between them? 

In Starling City, Felicity touches almost all aspects of his daily life. She is his right hand at Queen Consolidated, keeping him on task, juggling the logistics of corporate leadership. At night, it is her steady voice in his ear: advising, guiding and warning him during a mission. Her brilliant mind writes miles of elegant code in order to "borrow" secure intelligence for The Arrow. Her fingers fly across keyboards as she chases corruption with him. It is her hands pressed firmly over his wounds to stem the loss of blood. And when he has his occasional fits of dumbassery, it is she who gives no quarter, rising to defy his strength with her own, for both their sakes.  From the first day he sought her out, Oliver has openly needed Felicity in every way, save one – as his lover.

Although Oliver abandoned his playboy lifestyle after his return, his romantic life still seems to have little to do with actual love. Felicity's not naive; there has been an impressive roster of women who have been recent objects of Oliver's amorous desires: The Lance sisters, McKenna Hall, the hot mess that was Helena Bertinelli. His boinking of the b-otch Isabel Rochev occupies a bewildering category that defies explanation. Oliver may have warmed random ladies' sheets for a few stolen hours, however he chooses to spend the majority of his time with Felicity. Maybe it's delusional on her part, but she glimpses genuine commitment in the ways he looks at her, touches her, says her name. Often.

She realizes, with a bittersweet mix of emotions, her unique situation: Felicity Smoak, in love with Oliver Queen since 1944.

  **> \---->|<\----<**

"Oliver, there's something I haven't had a chance to tell you," Felicity admits as they prepare to abandon the car and their zombie passenger in a deserted, ramshackle barn on the outskirts of Cherbourg.

"What's that?" he asks, as he makes decisions on which items to leave behind. He has insisted she rest in the car to protect her stitches.

"When we were at the train station, I thought I recognized someone."

Frowning, Oliver stops and comes around the vehicle to face her.  "Who?" he asks in surprise.

"Anton. From Hunter's unit. I only saw him from a distance and then he disappeared. Maybe I was mistaken," she muses.

Oliver's gut tells him Felicity is not wrong. As soon as the Milice goons commandeered their train car, he knew they had been betrayed. Felicity’s sighting adds weight to his theory that Hunter's group has a mole to be ferreted out before they can focus on Savage.

“Oliver, what do you think happened to Jean-Paul,” she asks, chewing her lip with pained concern. “I realize we didn’t know him for very long, but he was good to us. I liked him.”

He glides a reassuring hand along her arm. “I liked him too. Maybe Margot will have heard something.”

“So are you going to stay in those Nazi threads?” Felicity asks, glowering.

 “Yes, until we get to Margot’s,” he replies. "But I’m sending you up first so she doesn’t shoot me.”

**> \---->|<\----<**


	13. Power of Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity asks a bedtime favor of Oliver. The vigilante goes mole-hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter combines a quiet bedtime Olicity moment with the drama of heat-seeking Oliver on a mission for truth and justice. Thanks to bushlaboo for reminding me that it was time to throw in some Arrow action. I hope I delivered!  
> [WARNING: There is a torture scene in this chapter. But in fairness, the guy deserved a little arm-twisting.]  
> As always, your kudos and comments are my inspiration to write.

" _Capitaine_ Hunter looks for you," Margot tells them as Oliver sheds the outer layer of the enemy uniform in her parlor. "He comes every day, asking the questions." She picks up the Nazi jacket as if it's a stinking, dead rat.

"Well, let's hope he comes tomorrow," Oliver says, accepting the glass of wine she pours him.

"Margot, have you had any news of Jean-Paul since his arrest?" Felicity asks, deciding she needs to forego the wine tonight. She'd had a bitch of a headache the morning after Oliver sewed her back together.

" _Non_ ," Margot replies. "They took him away. It will be _mal_. He has secrets, names they want."

"He's strong," Oliver asserts. "They won't break him."

" _Il est dans les mains de Dieu maintenant_ ," the woman sighs. "All we can do is carry on."

Noticing Felicity's drawn face, Margot touches her hand, saying, " _Chéri_ , you would like a bath tonight?"

"She can't," Oliver interjects. "Her wound. It's too soon for her to bathe."

Felicity gives him a baleful look, but is too tired to argue the point.

Rising from his chair, he says, "It's late. You should rest."

"That would mean moving," she moans. "Just throw a blanket over me and wake me tomorrow. When there's coffee. Lots of coffee."

Ignoring her nonsense, Margot and Oliver work in tandem to prepare her bed. He carries Felicity to the bedroom despite her feeble protests. Margot attends her for a visit to the bathroom and change into pajamas. The older woman weeps upon seeing the injuries suffered by the _belle femme._

Helping Felicity into bed, Margot laments, " _Pauvre fille._ " She sympathetically pats Oliver's arm as she leaves them with a whispered, " _Bonne nuit, mes enfants_."

Felicity groans when she spies the medic kit in Oliver's hand.

"Aren't you going to babble on about playing doctor with me? It's a felicitous opportunity," he teases, opening the metal case and noting which supplies he can use.

"Did you seriously just say 'felicitous opportunity'?" she asks, eyebrow wickedly arched. "How long have you had that one in your quiver?"

"Months," he confesses with a shy grin. "It's pretty great, don't you think?"

"Yeah," she agrees, her dimples showing. "Obviously, you're qualified to come up with your own idiotic chatter."

Oliver steps to her bedside, folding the covers back, hesitating before he unbuttons her pajama top.

"Oh, go on," she surrenders with a wave of her hand. "I've no more illusions of dignity."

He responds with a ghost of a smile, undoing three buttons to check her wounded side. Oliver can't hide the pain on his face when he sees the technicolor trauma flaring along her ribcage.

Seeing his expression, Felicity places her palm on his jaw, turning his attention to her steady gaze. "Oliver, I will heal," she promises softly.

"I never wanted you to know violence. To be scarred," he says. "I thought I could keep you safe."

"From Nazis?" she gently chides him.

Again, she's rewarded with a restrained smile. "From anyone. Anything that could hurt you," he confides.

"It's good that you want that, Oliver," she reassures him, her hand squeezing his. "But some shit is simply out of your control."

With a deep breath and a pretty smile, she tells him, "So do your worst, Dr. Queen. We can get through it together."

And they do.

After Oliver returns the supplies to the kit, he walks to the bedroom door, where her voice stops him.

"I miss you," Felicity confides. "At night."

He turns to her. She lies on her uninjured side, snuggled in the blankets, one hand resting on the pillow.

"I'll just bed down in the front room," he says lightly. "I don't want to crowd you."

"Oliver. Please."

It's the 'please' that nails him. He drops his head in contemplation, then leaves her. In truth, he misses Felicity beside him in the darkness, the silk of her hair on his shoulder, the familiarity of her scent, the contact with her luscious curves, the way her foot traces the calves of his legs. But more than those sensations – and they are each unforgettable in their own right – Oliver is in awe of the fact that, knowing him as well as she does, she trusts and accepts him on such intimate levels.

After midnight, Oliver quietly returns to her room with his pillow, gingerly easing his weight onto the bed. He slides down beside Felicity, controlling his every movement for fear of disturbing her, hurting her. After he stills, she closes the space he has so carefully left between them. Curling a hand around his forearm, Felicity rests her cheek against his shoulder, and sighs contentedly. He covers her hand with his and, by returning to her side, is blessed with the sleep of an innocent man.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Silence is in Oliver, deep as marrow, dense as stone, deadly as the arrows he buries in flesh and bone. At first, when he was new to the island – and basically an idiot – his stillness was an instinctive defense.  He presumed it was the innate response of all prey when hunted. To freeze in place. To make no sound. To become one with the shadows. Even he, a spoiled frat boy, recognized his vulnerability in the wild and savage jungle.

The island of Lian Yu was primitive – lethal – a killing ground. For the first time in his pampered life, Oliver faced a terrifying awareness of his own mortality, his weakness. He was utterly defenseless, imperiled by natural threats like disease and the unforgiving climate, in addition to the ruthless, unknowable men who attacked without reason, without mercy. He would have been an early casualty were it not for Yao Wei, his hooded savior, the iron ninja who schooled him in the ways of survival and gave him a fighting chance to see another sunrise.

In the beginning, the lessons were bedrock level. Blood must be shed, by his hand, for life to continue. Eat or be eaten. When you can go no further, you must keep on. Pain can be endured because it assures that you are alive, in spite of impossible odds. And the hardest imperative: Kill or be killed. It was in this last phase that silence served him best. He could be at your back, his breath warm on your neck, before you could react, a second too late, as he drove the blade home. Stealth, combined with bow, quiver and unerring aim, leveled the field for him, transforming a callow playboy into a soundless weapon. 

This is the formidable vigilante who hunts the traitor known as Anton through the dark forest of Normandy. The Frenchman recruited by the Germans flaunts an amiable, polished presence, at ease in the midst of those he plots to betray. But here in the woods, fleeing from the dead reckoning at his heels, Anton is less confident. 

In retrospect, Anton realizes it was a misstep to kill the British radioman. The act was too isolated an event, the timing too suspicious in the wake of Jean-Paul's arrest and the near-capture of _les Américains_. The trust placed in him by Savage went to his head, perhaps leading to the imminent loss of it, should he be taken. Anton instinctively knows he is being pursued, but he cannot fathom the cunning of the one stalking him by moonlight.

Oliver is convinced he is closing in on his prey, who is doing a piss-poor job of hiding his tracks. Fury compels him to mete out justice concerning this infiltrator, this cockroach responsible for Jean-Paul's disappearance, for the bullet that struck Felicity, for the cold body of a young Englishman who will never be going home.

Ultimately, Oliver drops from a tree to land in the direct path of the fleeing Frenchman, who emits a girlish shriek of surprise.

" _Bonsoir_ , Anton, you worthless piece of... What is the French word for 'shit'?" Oliver asks, twisting Anton's arm behind his back.

" _Excrément_ ," Anton gasps in pain.

"Of course," Oliver responds with a tight smile. "I speak more French than I thought. But for now, you're the one who's going to be talking."

Oliver removes a derringer and wicked blade from Anton's coat before raising his prisoner's forearm an inch higher, putting more stress on the strained shoulder joint.

"First, who sent you?" Oliver coerces.

"I cannot... He is _vicieux_ ," Anton pleads pitifully.

With a cruel twist of the wrist, Oliver leans closer to his captive, and growls, "It's important that you understand. I own you. Your bones. Your muscles. Your blood. They're mine. To break, to rip, to spill. As I choose."

He yanks the tortured arm higher.

"Savage," Anton screams.

"So, " Oliver asks with a slight frown, "Was that an insult? Or are you giving up a name?"

Happily, Anton elaborates, "Vandal Savage!"

Oliver immediately releases the arm from his iron grip. Anton collapses at his feet, sobbing and clutching his damaged shoulder.

"See how that works?" Oliver asks, his voice low. Terrifying. "You give answers. The pain stops."

He jerks Anton's good arm behind him, eliciting a fearful moan. "But lie to me?" Oliver promises through bared teeth, "And I will tear you apart."

Oliver releases him again, stands and steps away from the whimpering spy.

Within five minutes, Oliver knows Savage's travel route and schedule, where Jean-Paul is imprisoned and the location of the stolen shortwave radio.

With an out-stretched hand, Oliver helps the traitor back on his feet.

"What will you do with me now? I tell you what you ask," Anton whines.

"I'm giving you to Hunter's men," Oliver reveals. "Your fate will be decided by the unit you betrayed."

Then, as an afterthought, Oliver pivots to land a bone-crunching blow to the spy's jaw, knocking him flat on his back.

Spitting blood, Anton yells, " _Pourquoi_?"

Glaring down with pure retribution, Oliver stands over him and answers.

"That's for hurting my girl."

**> \---->|<\----<**


	14. A New Home. Again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunter, Oliver and Felicity deal with the aftermath of Anton's betrayal and the challenging missions that lie ahead. The squadron moves into a new home, one with walls. Felicity takes a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back. After unmasking Savage's spy, Oliver, Hunter and Felicity have their hands full. This is a lengthy chapter because I couldn't find a good place to break it. I continue to be heartened by your comments and kudos. I hope you enjoy this latest entry!

"He's dead."

"Anton?" Felicity gasps, shocked by Hunter's news.

"When?" Oliver asks, his expression unreadable.

"Executed at dawn. It was my crew's decision," Hunter sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Savage's spy did a lot of damage."

It’s their last morning in Margot’s apartment. Felicity awoke feeling well-rested and more like her energetic self. Seated in the parlor, she has noticed fresh bruising on the back of Oliver's right hand. She would bet her tri-band wireless router that the unique cuts to his knuckles were caused by contact with teeth. Recent contact powered by a wicked right hook. Apparently, Oliver's nightlife is as intense in 1944 as in the new millennium. The guy's energy level and endurance must be off the charts, she muses. The room suddenly feels over-heated.

"Anton betrayed Jean-Paul and us," Oliver states coolly.

"And he killed Nigh," Hunter relates.

"Oh, no. That sweet radio guy?" Felicity laments, shaking her head. "He was so young..."

Nodding tersely, Hunter adds, "I should have seen through Anton sooner. That’s on me.”

“Did you find the shortwave?” Oliver inquires, his hand skimming Felicity's shoulder in reassurance.

“Yes," Hunter responds, "It was buried where he said, but it's been damaged."

Felicity's ears pick up. "You still have it?"

Hunter nods, asking, "You think you can fix it?"

"Hey, I cut my teeth on circuitry and wires. You brought me here to use my skills," she confidently reminds him. "So, use me. In a purely professional way. Well, depending on the profession. Because there are some--"

Oliver saves her from verbal calamity by interrupting. "So, assuming Felicity can repair your radio--"

"And help us decode messages," Hunter suggests, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Revealing her dimples, Felicity smiles and chirps, "I'm you gir--" She freezes, casting a loaded glance at Oliver before correcting herself. "I'll do what I can."

Oliver swallows a smug grin. His girl, he privately revels. _Only his_.

Her voice draws him back to the issues at hand.

"Let's get to work and nail this Savage bastard," Felicity defiantly says.

Hunter extracts a map from his jacket before stepping to Margot's kitchen table to discuss strategy. Felicity and Oliver join him, unified in their mutual stance.

"Because of your help," Hunter begins, with a direct look at Oliver, "We now have the Intel to terminate Savage's mission."

"And rescue Jean-Paul," Oliver interjects.

"It's not our primary mission. Jean-Paul knew the risks," Hunter emphasizes with an air of finality.

"It's non-negotiable," Felicity asserts, glancing to Oliver for support. Their eyes lock, blue on blue, in accord.

"He's one of ours. Jean-Paul will be freed," Oliver says flatly in an ominous tone that is rarely questioned. Well, except by the tiny blonde at his side.

Recognizing defeat, Hunter shrugs. "Okay, we have two missions." He points to a location on the map. "Jean-Paul is being held in the Cherbourg city hall, now serving as Gestapo headquarters."

"At least he's nearby," Felicity offers hopefully.

"Based on what Anton told Oliver, this will be Savage's route here," Hunter says, dragging his finger northeast along a line on the map.

"He'll have to cross this key bridge," he continues, pinpointing a location. "It's heavily guarded by the Germans."

"You want to blow it up," Oliver surmises.

"Yes, preferably while Savage is crossing. It won't be easy," Hunter warns, his eyes connecting with Oliver's.

"Fine. We don't do easy," Oliver answers.

"We really don't," Felicity verifies, shaking her curls with emphasis. "You have explosives?"

Hunter nods, referencing the map again. "We have a large stash hidden in a cave in this area."

"What's our clock?" Oliver asks, his tactical gears spinning.

"Four days."

"Damn," Oliver says under his breath, aware of how tight the logistics are for two dangerous missions, such as these.

"It's not all bad news, Hunter informs. “We have the use of a vehicle now—"

“Thanks to our zombie Nazi,” Felicity interrupts.

With a tight grin, Hunter resumes, announcing, “We have also acquired a _château_ in a rural area. There's no power, but it beats sleeping on the ground."

Thrilled with this news, Felicity offers the captain a jaunty high five, which discomfits the starchy Hunter.

"Don't leave me hangin', Time Master," she banters, with a teasing smile.

The stiff-necked captain meets her halfway, flustered by this bubbly girl's antics.

Oliver gives him a sympathetic glance. "You might as well give it up, man. No power in the 'verse can stop her."

"Oh, squee! You used a 'Firefly' reference, Oliver!" she exults. "And in the right context! I could kiss you!" So she does.

"Now," she prompts, "When can we move in?"

**> \---->|<\----<**

Once intended as an eight-room home for a French family, the _château_ converts to headquarters for Hunter's operational team of six, plus Oliver and Felicity. A small group of Jewish refugees are in hiding at the _château,_ as well, until they can be safely smuggled out of country.

"The squadron was crippled by Anton. No doubt. I'm bringing in extra recruits whose loyalty and abilities are a sure thing," Hunter tells them as they cross the threshold of their new digs.

"But you've already timenapped--" Felicity accuses before Oliver cuts her off.

"Timejacked," he amends, turning to her with a slight frown.

"Latched on to that, have you?" she observes, amused by Oliver's inflexibility.

"We decided," he adds a bit petulantly, as if that settles the question.

"Wow, okay," she surrenders, petting Oliver's hand before looking back to a confused Hunter.

"You've _timejacked_ nine Starling City citizens so far," Felicity challenges the captain.

"And you're going to be held accountable for their welfare," Oliver warns Hunter, who curtly nods in understanding.

"You can't keep conscripting individuals on a whim, without their permission," Felicity argues. "How is that any different than the Nazis enslaving workers?"

Oliver feels a flash of pride in her laser ability, once again, to drill down an issue to underlying ethical principles. Felicity Smoak takes no prisoners. With clearly-defined ideals, her moral compass is as unerring as his aim with an arrow. And perhaps more fearsome.

Chagrined, Hunter is somewhat defensive, "There are no easy choices in times of war."

"We would have volunteered," Oliver asserts with ringing conviction.

"All you had to do was ask," she says, her voice quiet and sure, steel sheathed in velvet. "But it should have been our choice."

"Noted," Hunter concedes, avoiding eyes contact with either of them. That's as close to an apology as they will get.

"Captain," Felicity begins, pausing until he raises his eyes to hers, "I volunteer my services to your cause."

"She speaks for both of us," Oliver adds.

"Thank you," Hunter acknowledges, adding, "Our new recruits should be arriving in the morning. Then we will decide how to go after Jean-Paul and Savage."

**> \---->|<\----<**

The _château's_ dust-coated furnishings are sparse although a few beds remain upstairs. Margot has scrounged extra mattresses and other domestic necessities to make the once-stately residence more livable. There are large stone fireplaces to warm the chilly nights. Felicity has designs on the large copper bathtub while harboring wistful memories of steamy showers in her apartment. But a pleasant bath in a vintage French _château_ will be wonderful too, in spite of the necessary boiling and hauling of water from the rustic kitchen downstairs. Good thing Oliver's muscles are more sculpted than a DaVinci statue. She knows water weighs a ton.

They've moved past the question of sharing a bedroom. Which is odd, Felicity ponders, now that they are living in a bona fide house with walls _and_ a roof. The _château_ is relatively secure – the rooms have doors – so Oliver could sleep in another area of the home. But he doesn't offer. And she will not consider it, even if he does.  Unpacking their meager stockpile of possessions, the couple stores them in a quaint bedroom dresser. They claim one of the four-poster beds and it's not in bad condition, compared to accommodations the previous nights have afforded. Felicity vows she will never again take indoor plumbing, central heating and deodorant for granted, provided she ever returns to a time when such luxuries are commonplace. She's trying to absorb the possibility that she and Oliver may never circle back to the lives they were leading – _will lead?_ – in 2014.

Their move into the _château_ takes less than an hour and Oliver is noticeably restless so Felicity suggests they explore the surrounding grounds. Her injury is much improved and walking seems a good way to work out the lingering soreness. The weather has moderated and the sunny afternoon allows them to venture out without jackets.

From the front garden, Felicity looks up at the old manor, remarking with a bright smile, "I've always thought I'd enjoy touring Europe. I should be making the most of our time in France." She tilts her animated face up, shielding her eyes from the sun to see him.

Oliver shakes his head in disbelief, saying, "Only you, Felicity. Only you."

"Only me, what?" she asks, not sure if he's amused or appalled by her.

"Only you could be in the middle of a world war and reminding yourself to enjoy the scenery." He chuckles quietly and takes her hand as they continue walking, side by side. They happen upon a root cellar, which Oliver volunteers to explore after Felicity peeks inside, freaked by the abundant spider webs.

"Nuh-uh," she says adamantly. "There's no way I'm going into Shelob's den. The only web I want to encounter is by hyperlink." She pushes Oliver in the direction of the earthen cellar, adding, "You go be the brave, hairy hobbit while I savor my European vacation."

It turns out to be worth the excavation as Oliver returns toting a bucket filled with carrots, potatoes, apples, a jar of preserved peaches, a crock of butter and a bottle of wine.

Seeing the treasure in his hands, Felicity jokes, "I wish I'd known you were going to the grocers. I'd have sent you with a list."

"There's more in there," he says, pleased at their find. "But this is all I could carry."

Felicity grabs a twig from the ground and starts running it over his shoulders and back, gathering a wad of sticky, dusty spider webs. She can't suppress shudders and an instinctive urge to caper around him, as if a tarantula attack might be imminent. Oliver lightly skitters his fingers up her arm, causing her to shriek and flail at an imaginary arachnid while dancing a wild jig.

Laughing, he easily catches her. "Felicity. Felicity, it was just my hand. Not a spider."

Taking a moment to recover from her fright, she hits his arm. "Not funny, Oliver! You and your scary hand. Just keep that thing to yourself, mister." Felicity whacks him again when she spies him still in mid-chuckle, but he doesn't miss the tiny smile emerging on her lips.

"Come on," she good-naturedly says, grabbing his sleeve. "Let's go check out the barns. We'll find something to scare the pee out of you."

"I'm not afraid of mice," he volunteers.

"Mice!" she wails. "Oh, crap."

The cool, dark interior of the barn hides an assortment of useful items, none of which are particularly scary. Oliver zeroes in on a spool of fine-gauge wire, a pail of nails, a set of clamps and a mallet, all of which he carries to a heavy oak work table.

Following at his heels, Felicity chirps, "Is it too much to hope that you're building an espresso machine? Because that would light up my world, Oliver."

"No, I'm making a loop snare for a rabbit," he begins, "And if it works, it might put a hot meal in your stomach. Which you need because you're losing weight."

"I am?" she asks, in surprise, looking down at herself. "I hadn't noticed."

"During hard times, like a war," he starts before she cuts in.

"Or being lost at sea?" She suggests with an understanding glance.

"During hard times," he repeats, "It's actually difficult to gain weight."

"What did you miss most, Oliver?" she asks tentatively. "When you were on the island?"

His dexterous hands keep working, his prolonged silence weighing heavy.

Realizing she has probably over-reached, Felicity says, "You don't have to--"

"It's not what you think," he finally answers, his voice low.

"I'm not thinking," she blurts. "Well, of course I'm thinking. Always. But I honestly have no idea. I could guess, now that I'm stranded in Hitlerville. Things like refrigerators, Netflix, ice cream, fleece blankets, tampons--"

Mortified, Felicity's eyes flare open as she claps a hand over her mouth. Oliver stares at her with a perplexed mix of horror and hilarity. Felicity's mind is an unpredictable wonderland connected to a runaway mouth.

Oliver clears his throat before attempting to ease her embarrassment.

"What I missed most was you," he confides, focusing on the nail he is clamping to the table's edge.

"Me?" she exclaims. "That makes no sense, Oliver. We didn't even meet until--"

"Not exactly you, Felicity," he tries to explain, frowning. "But your qualities. All that you are."

Felicity shakes her head in confusion. "I don't understand."

He brings the mallet down sharply on the nail, neatly bending it into a U-shape. "I missed your hopefulness. Spontaneity and joy, like you possess. I needed someone who listened, who cared. Someone like you."

"But you had Shado?" Felicity prompts, trying to absorb his meaning.

"I did. And I loved her," he confesses, his hands momentarily still. "But our time together was so brief. We were constantly surrounded by danger and deprivation. It wasn't an idyllic romance, by any means."

He resumes clamping and bending nails. Meanwhile Felicity is stunned by his mention of romance in the same breath as defining her. Is he implying that their relationship has romantic potential?

Emboldened by his admission, she approaches, invading his personal space to lay her head on his chest, her arms circling his waist, her breasts pressing into the thin fabric of his shirt. "I'm here for you now. In whatever way you need me," she promises.

His hands move to her lower back, warm and solid. She lifts her eyes to his in askance. Is this allowed? Can I go further? Unable to read his expression, Felicity goes for broke, rising up on her tiptoes for a kiss – a real one – the kind shared by lovers. Because she's ready to clarify this murky mess. Consequences be damned.

It was worth the gamble.

**> \---->|<\-----<**


	15. Supper Followed by Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity work on different projects in the kitchen. A newcomer joins the team. And Felicity demands satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 20,000+ words, it's been a slow burn for Olicity as they've deepened their relationship, but the time has come for Oliver to drop his poker face and lay his cards on the table. Because at this point, Felicity is all in.
> 
> [WARNING: I turn up the heat in this chapter, so I've raised the content rating to Mature. Please read responsibly. ;) ]
> 
> I've been looking forward to writing this chapter since beginning this saga. It is my hope that you're excited about reading it. Please let me know if I've met your expectations through your kudos and comments.

By late afternoon, Oliver snares two nice-sized, meaty rabbits, which he cleans and prepares for stewing with the vegetables he discovered earlier. Felicity happily tears into the damaged shortwave radio, its guts scattered across the rustic work table in the large kitchen while Oliver rummages through tiny drawers of assorted herbs and spices. As she tinkers, Felicity rambles about how she misses her special set of computer tools, the time she dissected her mom's microwave, the revolving door of actors playing Dr. Who and how she'd kill for a chocolate bar.

Felicity Smoak talks. To anyone and no one. From early morning as she applies her fuchsia-pink lipstick until the late hours in the foundry, babbling into the earwigs of her Team Arrow boys. Her verbal meanderings are never trivial. They lead her to discovery. With dazzling intelligence, Felicity is MIT-educated and blessed with an effervescent, can-do spirit. Her nonstop musing began early in childhood as her ever-inquisitive mind expanded and connected with every cerebral challenge that came her way. Talking was her method of problem solving. Spoken words were lock picks opening the next tantalizing doorway of understanding.  Strangely, her endless observations and confessions are not annoying. If anything, her unfiltered sharing is one of her most endearing habits. When an unbridled stream of consciousness spills from an exceptional mind like Felicity's, it can be enlightening, at times embarrassing, but always enthralling.

Her pleasing, resonant voice is the musical refrain breaching Oliver's wall of silence. Day and night, he listens for her. At his side. From a tiny microphone in his ear. In his pre-dawn dreams. His need of her is a truth he accepts – knows in his soul – but not one he believes he can entrust to words. There are so few meaningful things he dares commit to language.

"...and, I ask you, how many Kardashians does reality TV really need?"

"What?"

"Oliver, are you listening to me?" Felicity asks, pointing a small knife in his direction.

"Yes. I am. You need chocolate?" he gamely guesses.

She looks at him over the top rim of her glasses. "Yep, that's what I thought." She leaves her repair project to join him at the stove, leaning on his arm as she stretches to peer into the simmering pot. "I'm usually opposed to eating anything as adorable as a bunny. But that smells divine and I suddenly have no self-control over my salivation."

"Hunger will do that," he observes.

"So Oliver, if we were on a deserted island, starving, would you eat me?"

The words have just left her mouth as the sexually-charged question hits her. The devilish glint in Oliver's eye causes her to spin away from him and flee the kitchen.

"I'm calling the others for supper," she yells over her shoulder as she makes a flustered escape.

Oliver pauses, thinking, yes, he is starving. But not for stew.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Sharing a delicious evening meal, at a homey table with plates and utensils, gives a comforting sense of normalcy, although the Allied bombers flying overhead are rumbling reminders of the conflict just outside their door. Hunter, his remaining team and a new guest gather to enjoy Oliver's cooking.

Before introductions can be made, Felicity shrewdly tells the newcomer, "You're Professor Stein. You teach Germanic studies at the university in Starling City."

"Why, yes," the middle-aged man replies with a surprised smile. "Guilty on all counts."

He extends his hand to her and she adds, "I'm Felicity. Felicity Smoak."

Turning to Oliver, the professor says, "And you are Oliver Queen. Your reputation precedes you."

Shaking his offered hand, Oliver cordially quips, "I'll try to prove it inaccurate."

"Not at all," Dr. Stein assures him, as they all take their places.

"The professor has proven invaluable to our cause," Hunter explains. "He is fluent in French, as well as German, and a respected authority on European history."

"We are well acquainted with Dr. Stein's resume," Felicity adds sweetly. "Since we've been searching for him for weeks." She sends a sly, barbed glance across the table at Hunter. "One found, six to go."

Without missing a beat, Felicity turns a beguiling smile back to the professor. "It’s a genuine pleasure, and relief, to finally meet you, Dr. Stein."

The group savors the hot meal and pleasant conversation. Afterwards, Felicity and Oliver load generous amounts of leftovers into a basket for the Jewish refugees.

"I wish they could have joined us tonight," Felicity regrets, adding apples to the basket.

"I know," Oliver consoles her with a side hug. "But it's too dangerous for them to risk being seen."

"I don't even know where they are," she admits, with a puzzled expression.

"Come," Oliver invites as they both gather the food into their arms. "I’ll show you."

He leads the way through the _château_ to their bedroom.

"In here? Really?" she asks in astonishment.

Oliver sets the basket down to move a large chifferobe concealing a hidden stairway that leads down to a basement and wine cellar.

"Is ' _chifferobe_ ' the French way of saying 'Hide behind me'?" Felicity jokes.

"They have been useful of late," he remarks, retrieving the basket and heading for the stairs with Felicity on his heels.

**> \---->|<\----<**

The language barrier does not prevent them from enjoying their visit with the _château_ 's invisible guests. Although it breaks Felicity's heart to think of the refugees' plight, she takes comfort in the knowledge that they are safe tonight with Oliver as their gatekeeper and guardian.

After they have returned upstairs, Felicity asks, "Did you know? Where they were? When you chose this room for us?"

He looks to her with a haunted expression. "Felicity. I know what it means. To be hunted. There’s precious little I can do that will have any impact to stop this evil. But I can give them safety and peace, this night, in this place."

She has never loved him more.

**> \---->|<\----<**

With the sinking of his family's yacht, Oliver Queen was cast away from everything and everyone he knew. His father committed murder and suicide in the space of seconds, ironically for Oliver's sake. The island of Lian Yu was his personal crucible and the place of Shado's unmarked grave where he also buried a piece of his heart. He made a mortal enemy in Slade, the soldier who had trained and  befriended him. Hong Kong taught him to inflict pain for the sake of a boy, who would ultimately die in spite of Oliver's actions. Moscow further hardened him, making him part of the brutal brotherhood of the Bratva. Then he was swept into the twisted realm of ARGUS.

Five years of loss and suffering stripped his identity, scarring his once-admired body and resetting his shaky moral compass.  The skills he acquired in order to survive changed him into a killer, yet he did not lose his soul. Alone in silence, with no possessions and few to trust, Oliver's former life burned like a phoenix and the hooded figure rising from the ashes was a strong, lean, tormented survivor. Those five bitter years haunted Oliver, instilling shadows that would never leave his eyes.

It is understandable that he so strongly identifies with the refugees sheltered beneath them. He is one of them.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity accepts that there will be no luxurious soak in a hot, soapy bath tonight considering the lateness of the hour.  Thinking through her options, she returns to the kitchen, heats water in a kettle, which she pours into a ceramic basin to carry back to their room for her toilette. Honestly, personal hygiene takes so much effort here compared to the life of convenience she has always known.

Oliver has disappeared. Because he’s Oliver.

As she washes herself in the privacy of the bedroom, Felicity replays this afternoon’s heated make-out session in the barn.  She’s exhilarated – and terrified – that he has allowed so many personal boundaries to fall between them. With each step towards greater intimacy, she expects him to spurn her with that dreaded speech, “Because of the life I lead…” Oh my Google, how much does she hate that phrase?

Feeling more or less clean, Felicity slips into the silk nightgown that Margot insisted she keep. “ _Il a l'air magnifique sur vous_ ," the older woman told her. Felicity brushes her hair until it gleams in the candlelight. She locates the toothbrush and weird ‘tooth powder’ – also gifts from Margot – but faces the quandary of where to spit. Damn, she misses having a modern bathroom. Finally, she shrugs and sticks her head as far as she can out the window and spews.

A familiar, offended yelp rises from below. Oh, so that’s where Oliver is.

A fidgety Felicity turns hopefully to the small stack of books in a basket by the bed. She would have thoroughly enjoyed reading “ _Les Trois Mousquetaires_ ” if she was capable of translating more than the title page. She sets a new goal for herself: Learn a foreign language. Not that coding isn't a foreign language. Because it totally is.  

A soft knock at the door redirects her attention.  “Can I come in?” Oliver asks quietly through the door.

“Sure,” she answers from her chair by the bed.

He hesitantly enters, closing the door behind him. “I thought you might be asleep by now,” he says.

“Too restless,” she replies. “Sorry about the spitting! I haven’t figured out how to live without plumbing.”

He steps closer to the bed and gently kicks the porcelain chamber pot underneath the frame. “I bet you’re delighted about this arrangement,” he teases.

“Oh yes, it's just like a night at the Hilton,” she responds with the requisite eye roll.

With a mild chuckle, Oliver bends to untie and shed his boots. He walks to the far side of the bed to undress, but is surprised by Felicity, who has followed him. “Felicity?” he asks, unsure.

“Oliver,” she answers, not explaining her proximity.

“You need something?” he inquires awkwardly, as she moves closer.

“Yes. I do.”

Recognizing her intentions, Oliver tries to put space between them. “Felicity,” he begins. “Because of the—“

“Don’t even,” she warns, advancing again with a pointed finger on his chest, in full spitfire mode. “After the barn. And the hand holding, and flirting and teasing and touching. And there's been actual nakedness! And all the sleeping together. **_Without sleeping together_**. Don’t you dare push me away and give me that lame speech again!”

Felicity swears this is the first time she has seen Oliver Queen panic. “Felicity. You’re right. I’ve let this go too far. I don’t know what I've been thinking. I don't know why--.”

“I know why,” she states, in a calmer voice. “Again and again, Oliver, you've chosen me. For two years, you’ve come for me. Needed me. Whether it’s 1944 or 2014, you and I are where we belong. Together. I’m not your buddy or your pal. But I am yours.”

“Felicity, it’s not that I don’t have feelings,” he stammers, avoiding her intense gaze.

“It comes down to this, Oliver,” she says. “Tell me straight-out that you don't want me. In your arms? In your bed? As your woman?"

I've wanted you from the first babble, he thinks.

Oliver searches Felicity's beautiful face for a prolonged moment before gathering her to his chest, his breath hot against her ear, his voice strained.

"You don't know how much I want you, Felicity?" he whispers urgently. "To hold you. Have you as mine? My hands want to worship your curves and shadows like a blind man." His grip tightens.  "I want to leave my fingerprints in your secret places. I want to taste your passion on my tongue. To see your skin pebble at my touch. I want to bury myself in you. Move in you. I want you to gasp my name with every climax."

For the first time in her life, Felicity Smoak is speechless. 

It turns out, even without words, Felicity's a well-spoken woman, taking all night to respond to his heated confession. To open her heart and body to his. To answer all of their wants. With kisses, caresses and pent-up passion, Felicity finally brings the castaway Oliver Queen home.


	16. Hello, Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver have different reactions to their night together. Hunter's team acquires new supplies and familiar faces. The Freedom Fighters prepare to launch an attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting. Food-poisoning threw a big wrench in my week. But I'm vertical again and hopefully, back on schedule. Thanks in advance for your comments and kudos. [HINT: Give me some, okay?]

Self-recrimination and guilt. Oliver's go-to reactions to anything new and wonderful. So Felicity is not surprised to find him in a full-blown wallow of shame the following morning. He stands at the window, looking but not seeing, as he angrily wonders for the hundredth time what he'd been thinking last night. 

Oliver Queen has enough notches on his bedpost to give James Bond an inferiority complex. At the age of fifteen, he lost his virginity to Paulina, a flirtatious 25-year-old woman, employed as a maid in the Queen mansion. She was pretty, stacked and more than willing to take advantage of his raging hormones. By the time he began dating Laurel, he was accomplished in the ways of giving, and receiving, sensual pleasure. Now, it bothers him that he doesn't even know the names of some of the 'lust bunnies' he bedded. Even when he slept with a woman he cared about — Laurel, Shado, Sara — there was a part of himself, inexplicably held in reserve. Perhaps he was always waiting. For her. For Felicity.

Oliver has had sex with countless women. He's made love to one.

Slipping under his arm, Felicity cuddles into his chest, murmuring, "You can stop that at any time."

"Stop what?" he asks, a deep crease between his brows.

"Wearing sackcloth and ashes."

His frown deepens in confusion.

"Old Testament repentance, desolation and ruin," she explains. "All of which are right up your alley. Are you sure you're not Jewish?" Then, transitioning to heart-felt earnestness, she tells him, "Oliver, it will hurt me if your response to our first night together is regret."

"Felicity," he sighs, turning to her and pulling her close, kissing her hair. "I'm not sorry we were together. Except—"

She groans into his neck.

"I'm concerned for you," he clarifies. "We had unprotected sex, Felicity. Lots of unprotected sex.”

"Yes," she answers, smiling at her delicious memories of last night and hugging him tighter. "And normally, that would never happen. Without protection. But nothing in our lives is normal right now. It's not like you could make a run to Wal-Green's."

"Felicity," he says, raising his head to make eye contact. "You could be pregnant."

"Oliver, we could have a full panzer division show up at the front door. A bomb could decimate this place at any moment. This could be our last day. And if it is, I've got no regrets."

His eyes soften and he tilts her chin up for a lush kiss. "Would you like a bath?" he offers.

A broad smile lights up her face. "That would be heavenly," she answers, reluctantly letting him go.

Within an hour, Felicity steeps in the portable, copper bathtub that Oliver has diligently filled with hot water from the kitchen. It's early morning and Hunter's team is set to meet with the new recruits soon so she efficiently shampoos her hair and abandons the contoured tub to dry and dress for the day. She checks her ribs to see the bruising has faded from scarlet and blue to gross shades of green and black, reminding her of an over-ripe banana. However, the wound has closed nicely, leaving a narrow, crimson line. The pain has eased although Oliver was particularly careful last night not to jar or hold her too tightly. Sweet, ridiculous man that he is.

Peering at her flat abdomen, so recently pressed to Oliver's in naked bliss, Felicity wonders if there _could_ be a baby growing in there. A tiny Olicity reproducing cells to miraculously form a child. _Their_ child.  If pregnant, what would that mean to the man and woman whose DNA had combined — gloriously — to create this new life? She giggles at the visual she imagines of the hooded Arrow juggling pacifiers, baby wipes and a diaper bag. Then, the whole time travel nuttiness kicks in for Felicity. Would a child conceived in 1944, but born in 2014, be like Benjamin Button? Because that movie totally messed with her head, but, hey, Brad freaking Pitt can make any drivel watchable.

Felicity pulls on blue jeans – they call them dungarees here – because the squad may be going tactical today, depending on mission plans to be finalized this morning. She sweeps her clean hair into a high ponytail to finish air-drying.

Felicity makes a beeline for the kitchen, her nose locked on the heady aroma of coffee. Her second goal is to return to the radio project, aware that it is their lifeline to Resistance and British operations. She has just gotten settled at the work table in the kitchen when a familiar voice shocks her.

"Hey, Barbie!"

"Roy?" she stutters, upsetting her coffee cup. Seeing him in the kitchen doorway, Felicity claps her hands in happiness, flies off her stool and into his arms. "I can't believe it!" she cries. And laughs. Through tears.

Taken aback by the affectionate hug, Roy blushes and tries to figure out where to place his hands.

"Where did you come from? When did you get here? How are Thea and Digg?" she peppers him with questions and zealous pats as if verifying his presence is real.

"Digg is fine, considering he just parachuted into World War Two," a deep voice says behind her as heavy boots hit the kitchen tile.

"Diggle!!!" Felicity screams with joyful eagerness, diving into his rock-steady embrace.

Oliver follows Diggle into the _château_ , carrying new equipment. He suppresses a smile at Felicity's noisy elation.

"I can't believe it!" she declares, beaming at them, her eyes shining. "We're all together again. Team Arrow!"

As if on cue, Oliver delivers his expected mantra, "We don't call it that," triggering Felicity's giggle fit and smirks from their other two "team" members.

Roy heaves a suitcase onto the work table, saying, "Here you go, Barbie. Special delivery from your friends across the English Channel."

"I have friends in England?" Felicity asks with mild surprise.

"Friends of the Resistance, Felicity," Diggle explains. "We’ve been with the OSS in London, preparing for last night's drop."

Opening the wooden case, Roy brags, "And they loaded our asses down with toys."

At the mention of 'toys,' Oliver's interest is instantly piqued, drawing him closer to hover over Felicity's shoulder, viewing an array of weapons and devices, some of which he doesn't instantly recognize. His hand instinctively reaches out to close around a compact crossbow which he lifts, savoring the feel of a bow in his grip again. He loads a square-headed bolt, aims and fires it into a burlap sack of flour resting in a corner of the pantry.

"Are you done dispatching the dry goods?" Felicity inquires, charming him with a familiar tilt of her head.

He replies with a tight, pleased smile, lowering the crossbow into the case to investigate the remaining gadgets and weaponry. He recognizes garrotes, mini-telescopes, lock picks, slender daggers, radio parts, hatchets to cut phone and electrical lines, silenced guns and code equipment. It's a saboteur's Christmas list, Oliver observes.

Roy reaches across to retrieve a coin, inspecting it with curiosity. Along the disk's edge, he detects a tiny switch, which he flicks, releasing a small, yet lethal, blade. He grins at the ingenious weapon, returning the blade to its hidden slot and tossing it to Felicity, who deftly catches it.

"Yo, Felicity," Roy teases. "Keep that in your pocket for your next kidnapping."

She gives him a thumbs up and admires the coin’s craftsmanship.

"Wonder what this is?" Digg asks, selecting a mysterious object from the box.

Felicity inspects it in his hand, scrutinizing the design. "Pressure switch?" she guesses.

"For railroad tracks," explains Captain Hunter, as he enters the now-crowded kitchen. With a nod of approval in Felicity's direction, he adds, "Very astute, Miss Smoak."

"That's me," she replies. "Astute and cute, to boot."

Giving up a groan, Roy rolls his eyes at her quirky, rhyming humor.

Oliver wraps a hand around Felicity's waist, pulling her closer to his side, a motion that does not escape Diggle's eagle-eyed notice.

"Let's meet with the others in the front room," Hunter suggests, leading them out of the kitchen. "We have missions to plan on a short clock."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity is most fetching in her 1940s get-up: A pleated, A-line dress with peep-toe pumps and those maddening seamed stockings that raise Oliver's heart rate every time she wears them. Oliver stews at the bedroom window, pacing a rut in the plank flooring, as she puts finishing touches on her upswept hair, neatly pinned in a French roll.

"I don't like this," he fumes. "We shouldn’t separate. It's too dangerous."

Felicity abandons the mirror and goes to him. "Oliver. Every day and every place in Europe is dangerous now. The team needs someone to act as a distraction. So, it's gonna be Dr. Stein? Or this?" She strikes a come-hither pose, complete with a sexy pout.

"I should be with you, in case—" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Digg needs you to scout the railway bridge with him. We don't have time for Oliver Queen to be a member of every mission team." she points out, stepping into his embrace. "Jean-Paul needs our help." 

Oliver crushes her to him, his forehead pressing against hers as he gruffly confides, "I can't lose you."

Felicity lifts her face, drawing his stormy blue eyes to hers, "Then kiss me as if you could."

**> \---->|<\----<**

The despicable German uniforms are in use again, with Dr. Stein decked out as the Gestapo officer. Backing him up are Hunter, Roy and two of the French operatives, named _Louis_ and _Etienne_. Felicity descends the stairs, pulling on a pair of cloth, wrist-length gloves, to join her assigned team, with Oliver following as her fretful shadow.

"Everyone clear on their role and timing?" Hunter asks forcefully, receiving nods all around. "Dr. Stein, you have the paperwork ready?"

The professor bobs his head in assent, holding up the dossier with the prisoner transfer orders he has forged.

With a grim smile, the Captain barks, "Okay, our supplies are loaded. Let's roll."

On his way out the door, Roy is stopped by Oliver's iron grip on his upper arm. "She's all that matters for you today," Oliver growls next to his ear. "That's your mission. Keep Felicity safe."

"Chill, man," Roy answers, a touch insulted. "I got her."

Oliver catches up to Felicity at the door of the black Mercedes 260D sedan. His hand drops low on her back while the other steadies her arm. "Be careful," he entreats, his insides clenching in dread.

"I will, Oliver," Felicity promises with a calm smile. "I'll see you tonight."

She turns and settles in the backseat, her hand still clasped in his, his eyes locked on hers, his expression strained.

"Tonight," she reassures him.

Oliver reluctantly releases her hand and closes the vehicle's heavy door.

The Mercedes engine sparks to life, purring as it pulls away, carrying Oliver's heart with it.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	17. In the Belly of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diggle and Oliver have The Talk. Felicity goes tactical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Resistance teams split in this chapter, which turned out to be longer than expected. Action sequences consume a surprising number of words. The events at Gestapo headquarters are historically-based and as accurate as possible. Thank you for keeping me excited about this story with your comments and kudos!

So," Diggle grunts as they hike through rough terrain. "Wanna tell me what's going on between you and Felicity?"

Oliver stalks in silence for several more minutes. Knowing him as he does, Digg assumes his question has been heard. A man of few words, Oliver may – or may not – answer, in his own time. 

Finally, "We're together," is his clipped reply.

"I figured as much," Digg sighs. "Seeing as how you're sharing a bedroom." He lets moments pass before continuing. "Do we need to have The Talk?"

Oliver releases a breathy chuckle, answering, "I may have been expelled by five ivy league schools, Digg, but I think I've got the basics of biology down."

"That's not The Talk I meant," Diggle asserts. "And you know it."

A minor eternity goes by before Oliver explains, "It's not a fling, Digg. I'll do the right thing."

"I hope that's true, Oliver," Diggle says. "Felicity doesn't have a dad in her life. But she's family. If you hurt that girl, I'm taking it personally. We clear on what that means?"

Oliver stops, pivoting to face his friend, who is presently stomping all over his ego. "You don't have a very high opinion of me, do you?" he accuses, his anger apparent.

"Your history with women, Oliver, is... erratic, to put it mildly," Diggle says, his voice even and concerned. "Felicity doesn't have a lot of experience with relationships. And you know how she feels about you, man? It will crush that girl if this doesn't work out. I just don't want that. For either of you."

Hearing Digg's worry for Felicity's welfare lets the steam out of Oliver's fury. Hell, he wouldn't be thrilled about her being with a guy with a reputation like his. No one is as protective of Felicity as Oliver, so how can he fault Diggle for harboring the same impulse?

Scrubbing his neck in frustration, Oliver sighs and admits, "I hear you, Digg. We want the same thing — what's best for Felicity."

"I'm not saying it can't be you, Oliver. Just be careful with her."

And with that, The Talk ends in accord between the two men who love Felicity Smoak, in their independent ways.

Oliver takes a gulp of water from his canteen, the bad taste reminding him why Europeans choose wine over this swill.

"You know, we were wagering that it was just a matter of time. With you two," Diggle says with a shake of his head. "Roy owes me money. So thanks for that."

Oliver throws a grimace in his partner's direction, "You were betting on when Felicity and I would—?"

"Hey, man," Diggle defends himself, "You gotta talk about something when you're stuck doing surveillance for hours on end. Especially with Roy."

"Unbelievable!" a cranky Oliver complains, adding a few well-chosen cuss words in a blue tirade.

The pair travels on for miles without speaking before Oliver asks in exasperation, "So, are you telling me you placed a bet on 1944?"

With a smug grin, Diggle announces, "I bet this would happen before the end of the month. And 1944 is. Before the end of the month. Way before..."

**> \---->|<\----<**

The Mercedes cruises into Cherbourg, gliding into midday traffic which is congested with vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians and the occasional horse-drawn wagon.

"It's 12:30," Hunter announces from behind the wheel. "The Gestapo staff should be nose-deep in the feedbag by now. If anything, they're punctual sons of bitches."

Dr. Stein casts an apologetic expression over his shoulder in Felicity's direction for the captain's coarse language. She is touched by his genteel concern, but she's long-since gone deaf to cuss words since Roy's arrival in The Foundry. That boy can peel paint with his colorful verbiage.

Roy fidgets beside her in the cavernous backseat, pulling and scratching at his collar.  "I hate this fu—"

"Roy!" Felicity sharply interrupts him before he can give the sweet, old-fashioned professor a coronary. "So, the uniform is uncomfortable?" she asks in the manner of a matronly school teacher.

"It's like being loofahed with a dead rat," he complains.

In a soft undertone, Felicity tersely reminds him, "We can't always fight bad guys in a hoodie."

"Well, we should," he retorts petulantly, tugging at his sleeves now.

The captain converses in rapid-fire French with Etienne and Louis, who are let out of the vehicle two blocks away from Nazi headquarters. They're assigned to carry buckets of explosive coal into the building using the Gestapo's back entrance, then loading the highly-volatile briquettes into the coal bin.

Avoiding conversation with the Germans will be the biggest challenge for Roy and Felicity. The captain and the professor will take the lead in the 'transfer' of the prisoner known as Jean-Paul. Fairly confident that she can pull out the big guns of flirtation without speaking, Felicity steels herself for entering the belly of the beast. Despite her rationale this morning with Oliver, she privately wishes for his stalwart protection inside the terrifying two-story, stone building now coming into view. Taking a deep cleansing breath, she pulls on the heavy trench coat, its pockets loaded with grenades.

Hunter parks the Mercedes for a quick getaway. Their mission is two-pronged: Rescue Jean-Paul and demolish Gestapo headquarters, taking out as many Secret Police as possible. Safely escaping the blast zone and possible enemy pursuit will be tantamount to survival.

Adopting their game faces, the saboteurs exit the sedan and climb the steps to the heavy doors, flanked by the flags of France and the Third Reich. As they pass armed guards, Felicity is chilled by the brusque Nazi salutes and barks of "Heil Hitler!" Sensing her anxiety, Roy steps closer to her side, brushing her hand with his, renewing her resolve. She pastes a dimpled smile on her lips, wondering if this is how Oliver feels when forced to be the perfect public face of Queen Consolidated. Without Nazis though.

With forged paperwork in hand, Professor Stein and Hunter boldly approach a clerk's desk, speaking German and sounding authoritative. Because they have arrived during the lunch hour, there is limited staff on duty. The clerk scrutinizes the documents for a long, tense moment. Felicity fakes a kittenish sneeze, drawing his attention and holding it with a bright smile and tiny wave of her fingers. " _Excuse moi_ ," she mews. He responds with a nervous grin.

Roy gives a side-eye to Felicity, who is equally surprised to discover her undercover role for the day is a French collaborator. It's an impromptu gamble, but a brilliant ploy allowing her to use her limited French vocabulary to flirt with the Nazi staff, praying their understanding is as limited as hers. Because her knowledge of French is mainly based on the lyrics of _Lady Marmalade_ , but ‘ _Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir’_ probably won’t be helpful today. Maybe with Oliver tonight...

Apparently satisfied with the papers, the clerk stamps and processes the counterfeit orders. He calls a junior staffer to his desk, rattling off instructions before dispatching him to the upper floor. Felicity wanders from the group under the pretense of warming her hands at the coal-burning stove. Her eyes map the building, in hopes of spying the back entrance. It's impossible to guess where prisoners are kept in the warren of hallways and closed doors.

The minutes drag like hours. The utilitarian clock mounted above her shows the dinner hour is rapidly ticking to a close.

When Jean-Paul appears, in the custody of two Germans, Felicity struggles to mask her horror. Gaunt and bloodied, it's clear he has been tortured during interrogations. She swallows her nausea, noticing his missing fingernails. She takes vengeful gratification in the weight of the grenades resting against her thigh.

A flurry of activity in a nearby hallway warns of the arrival of senior staff members returning from their dinner. Hunter roughly pulls Jean-Paul towards him, making a derogatory comment that amuses his captors.

Turning on the charm, Felicity flashes a pretty smile at the approaching phalanx of German officers, who appear quite amiable considering they're depraved bastards. She holds their interest for a few scant moments before they turn their attentions to the prisoner being removed from their clutches. Hunter and Professor Stein engage in a noisy debate over Jean-Paul's fate.

Felicity pulls a cigarette from a polished case in her pocket and an overly-eager junior officer produces a lighter for her. Having never smoked, she mimics the sophisticated actresses of vintage black and white films, praying she doesn't succumb to an uncontrollable coughing fit. She only inhales long enough to ignite the cigarette, looking up through her eyelashes with a flirtatious sparkle. " _Merci_ ," she murmurs sweetly.

Slipping the burning cigarette behind her back, Felicity artfully passes it to Roy, who wedges it in a box of match heads. _Voila!_ A bargain-basement, time-delayed fuse, which he conceals behind a massive typewriter. From his coat, he surreptitiously pulls a small, cloth bag stuffed with explosives, which he lays next to the matchbox.

With a bomb set to blow at their fingertips, and hopefully explosive coal loaded in the back hallways, it's past time to bolt. Felicity feels a thrill of excitement fueled by imminent danger. Or it could be she just needs to yack.

It's not necessary to understand the German language to recognize that the argument over Jean-Paul is going nowhere good. Roy steps ahead of Felicity, putting her closer to the building's entrance. Felicity's fingers close around the grenades in her pocket, her mind reviewing Hunter's instructions. Pull the pins. Throw grenades. Run as if the hounds of hell are on your heels. Because it's likely they will be.

She notices that Roy has widened his stance, a sure sign he's ready to give up this subterfuge and resort to what he understands best: slamming fists, flying kicks, and general mayhem. Conscious of her strengths – and weaknesses – Felicity backs towards the door, ready to unload her grenades and blow this pop stand. Literally.

The rest of the team is on the same page. Without warning, Hunter lands a hammerfist on the jaw of the nearest German, triggering Stein's jab to the throat of another. For an esteemed educator, the professor can land a punch, Felicity notes with surprised admiration. Roy launches a spinning back kick taking out the nearest guard. Reaching for the doorknob behind her, Felicity's hand is grabbed by a man at her back, a huff of his onion breath invading her space.

" _Halt, Schatzi_ ," he whispers with malice, his hand painfully wrenching her arm. " _Wir haben uns doch gerade erst kennengelernt._ "

"You could use a mint," a fiercely-American Felicity counters, slamming the heel of her darling pump into the German's knee, then pivoting to drive her elbow into his nose with a nauseating crunch. He's still on his feet, but dazed by the strike. She leaps around him and is out the door but quickly returns after remembering the grenades. In her wake, Jean-Paul throws his shoulder into her attacker like a very small linebacker, knocking the Nazi flat.

" _Ne bouge pas, espèce de chien_ ," the Frenchman spits at the German now lying at his feet.

Hunter yells, "Launch and run!" as the team members jerk pins from the grenades, lobbing them over their shoulders, all five sprinting pell-mell out the massive front door, which Hunter yanks closed behind them.

A roar of successive explosions splits the air, deafening the saboteurs and most of the town. Shards of glass and debris hit them as they dive into the Mercedes, where Etienne waits with engine running.

"Go! Go! Go!" Hunter shouts as the sedan jumps away from the destruction, careening down the street.

In the backseat, Roy is slapping Felicity's back, raising her instant ire.

"Cut it out, Roy!" she screams. But he doesn't.

"Your coat. Is. On fire!" he bellows, continuing to beat at the small flames.

"Oh!" Felicity exclaims, wide-eyed as she pulls her arms free of the smoldering fabric.

Etienne pumps the brakes, causing all manner of alarm for the escaping allies.

"Why are we stopping?" Hunter demands to know from the backseat.

 _"Les français. Ils célèbrent!"_ Etienne explains helplessly, waving his hands at the hordes of his countrymen, who believe their liberation is at hand. Triumphant crowds clog the avenue, effectively blocking their getaway.

"Go around!" Hunter yells. _"Klaxonnez. Faites le tour!"_

"Wouldn't it be funny if they attacked us? Since we're in a German car? In Nazi uniforms?" Felicity says, her voice growing smaller with each word as she realizes it could very well happen.

Etienne slowly weaves the powerful car through the celebrating throng, blasting the horn, although none of its passengers can hear it over the incessant ringing in their ears. The team is confident the Gestapo presence in Cherbourg has been destroyed. At least for now. They're bloodied, deafened, bruised and scorched around the edges, but happy nonetheless.

" _Merci, mes bons amis_. Is good to be alive," Jean-Paul sighs with a weary smile. " _Vive la France libre!"_

**> \---->|<\----<**


	18. Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunited team celebrates a successful mission. Oliver and Felicity take time to reconnect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title reflects, this is a brief interlude, allowing the characters — and readers — to catch their breath and react to the completed rescue mission. Danger is still afoot. Just not in this post. Kudos to those faithful readers who are still with me. As always, your comments are addictive and much appreciated. Enjoy!

"Ow."

"Ow."

"Ow."

"Felicity. It's glass embedded in your skin. There's no way to do this painlessly," Oliver patiently explains. Again.

Felicity lies face down on the bed, in her silk underwear, as Oliver attends to the tedious task of removing tiny glass splinters from her legs, hips and back. Most of the cuts are small although a few on her upper back required a stitch or two.

When Oliver and Diggle returned to the _château_ , the sight of Felicity's burned, bloody clothing chilled his heart. Her ruined, discarded garments greeted him in the hallway by their closed bedroom door, sending his dark imagination spiraling. Then she had called his name, pulling him through the door, where she was brushing wood splinters and glass out of her hair. Disheveled and smoky, sitting in her blood-flecked bra and panties, she had looked up, happy and spirited, gifting him with a luminous smile. Realizing she was okay, he knelt before her and pressed his ear to her breast, just needing to feel the reassuring beat of her heart.

"I don't understand how glass got through my coat and my dress," Felicity mumbles into the pillow.

"Velocity," he answers. "The force of an explosion can drive splinters through walls. When I think about what could have happened—"

"Stop," she orders, turning to face him. "Stop imagining all the horrible things that could have gone wrong, Oliver. And appreciate what went right. What our team accomplished today." She takes his hand, wanting a physical connection to match her words. "We were bad-ass, Oliver. And it felt good. To get Jean-Paul out of that nightmare. To take that building down. To end those SOBs who have caused so much suffering."

Felicity sits up, kissing him softly, tenderly touching his jaw. "I know it's hard for you to let me go to scary places. Dangerous places. Believe me," she emphasizes, her eyes locking with his, "I know how it feels to be the one left behind. The one who waits for the heroes to come home."

Pulling her face into his neck, he wraps her in a protective embrace. "It's horrible. I hate it," he confesses with quiet intensity.

"Ow."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Supper is a raucous celebration with Jean-Paul as the guest of honor. In spite of the damage inflicted by his cruel captors, his good humor remains undaunted and he thoroughly enjoys his newfound freedom and the company of his _bon amis_. His rescue team revels in the day's memorable actions, including their close shaves and unexpected triumph over the despised Gestapo. There is renewed hilarity over the cheering crowds who unwittingly posed a hindrance to their getaway.

Afterwards the men listen closely to Oliver's and Diggle's field report of their next target: the railway bridge to be detonated in barely two days. Meanwhile, Felicity scarfs up the newly-delivered radio parts and energetically tackles the shortwave repair project, which she has an obsessive need to conquer. An hour later, she whoops with triumph as the shortwave receives the first crackles of static, a hopeful sign that her tinkering has paid off.

"Boys! We're back in business!" she calls out to her crew. Adjusting the tuner, she hones in on French voices, confirming that they're once again connected to the outer world, at least by radiowaves, 500 miles in any direction.

Stepping back into the kitchen, a silk map in his hands, Oliver joins her at the makeshift work station. "It's not Wi-Fi, but it's still pretty damn sexy," she gloats. "Now, to find someone speaking _Anglais_..." she mutters, fiddling with the tuner. Soon, she locks onto the BBC broadcast from London.

"Where are the others?" Felicity asks, looking over the top of her lenses.

"Roy and Jean-Paul are swimming in their third bottle of Bordeau," Oliver relates. "The others are still plotting logistics."

She and Oliver make a rapt audience for the bits of broadcast 'news' and slice-of-life announcements. It is twilight, the windows open to the remaining warmth from the dying day.

"Odd, isn't it," Felicity murmurs.

"What's that?" he asks, seated at her elbow, his hand stroking her upturned palm.

"Listening to news that's seventy years old while the world around us holds its breath, not knowing how this war will end," she muses.

" _We_ don't really know how this ends either," Oliver reminds her quietly. "Not until we know we've stopped Savage."

Radio programming has transitioned to music.  Felicity closes her eyes, resting in the beautiful strains of long-lost love songs. Oliver stands and holds out his hand for Felicity's, leading her outside to the flagstone paving, lit only by the moon and the soft gleam of lamps in the _château_ windows. The songs float with them as he pulls her to him, in relaxed motion with the music, a slow lovers' dance under the stars. With the wide palm of his hand, Oliver gently lays her head onto his chest, tucking her under his jaw. Her body melds with his, dissolving the spaces between them, serenaded by "Embraceable You," "Someone to Watch over Me," "I'll Be Seeing You."

In this moonlit courtyard, there is no war, no cruelty, no urgent mission, no threat to life or liberty. There is just her slender hand slipping inside his shirt, craving contact with his skin. There is only the thrill of her pulse beneath his palm as he caresses her neck. There is nothing but the warmth of his breath on her cheek as his eyes feast on the beauty that is Felicity.  In this moment, this sacred slice of time, the world begins and ends in their embrace, within their seeking hearts, each finding salvation in the other. There is nothing beyond the sweet communion of their kiss, their lips sharing naked confessions of desire, of tenderness, of forever. 

**> \---->|<\----<**


	19. Boom and Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Resistance sabotages Savage's plan. The repaired radio attracts unwelcome guests. Oliver's mission tears him from Felicity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on in today's new chapter. It's time to royally aggravate Vandal, leaving part of the crew in jeopardy.  
> [TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter includes an intense near-rape scene and the death of a fictionalized character (Not my fault - Blame the Nazi bastards.)]  
> Please leave your comments and kudos. Because I'm needy that way.

Felicity wakes in Oliver's arms, surprised that he has not already vanished to tackle the day. She's never encountered anyone who could survive on as little sleep as her employer/partner/time-traveling-boyfriend aka Oliver Queen. But on this morning, she happily rests against the solid, warm muscles of his chest, his arm stretched beneath her neck, a long leg wrapped securely around both of hers. Based on the slow, evenness of his breathing, she believes he's still asleep. Oliver doesn't really snore although he's hinted that she occasionally does, a possibility she categorically denies, but secretly suspects is true. He seems to think it's cute and although she's mildly embarrassed, Felicity recognizes that real relationships grow from intimate revelations, good and bad, funny and maddening, thorny and wonderful.

It's eerie how suddenly he wakes and Felicity's not sure if she'll ever adjust to his abrupt, electric awareness. Oliver silently transitions from deep sleep to full alertness in a heartbeat. Felicity suspects that he developed this habit as a survival skill during his years on the island. Nevertheless, it spooks her every time. Like now. Because she suddenly notices he is watching her with a calm, attentive gaze as she flinches beside him.

"Oliver!" She scolds in an alarmed whisper. "We've got to come up with a way to let me know you're waking up, like tiny bells on your eyelashes."

"Felicity," he murmurs, giving her a gentle kiss. "I'm awake."

Snuggling up to him, her cheeks dimple with a sweet grin as she says, "Yeah, see? Like that. So much better."

**> \---->|<\----<**

The interference of Rip Hunter and The Arrow is an annoyance, like gum to be scraped from the sole of Vandal Savage's boot. The Time Master and his recruits pose a minor distraction to the immortal warrior's vision – his next great triumph. It is almost laughable, this notion that their little plans – the machinations of little men – can have any significant impact on his undertaking. Savage will rectify the mistakes of the grand fool Hitler before replacing him and establishing the victorious Third Reich to rule the millennium with himself at the helm. _Führer Savage_ , Supreme Chancellor, will be a title befitting his eminence. His only concern? How much he will miss the glorious violence of war once the Allies have been permanently crushed by the Axis powers.

**> \---->|<\----<**

What to do with Felicity? It's the question perplexing Oliver as their mission plan coalesces.  Instinctively, he considers leaving her ensconced in the _château_ with Jean-Paul.  The estate is relatively secluded with no military traffic in the vicinity. Tomorrow's bridge demolition will put the saboteurs in direct collision with Nazi troops, obviously another good reason for Felicity to stay behind. So, why is he so damned reluctant to leave her?

"You're afraid to let her out of your sight," Diggle correctly surmises as they load explosives and gear into the Mercedes.

"Shouldn't I be?" Oliver challenges, half-irked by the insinuation that he is being overly protective. Again.

"Yes, you absolutely should. I hate the idea of separating from her, too," Digg sighs. "But it feels like the lesser of two evils."

"She won't like it," Oliver says, dreading the inevitable argument.

"If she feels she's being useful here, that might be a point in your favor," Diggle suggests, curiously eyeing the supplies Oliver is gathering. "Anything I can help you with there?"

"I'm working up some custom arrows," Oliver explains, intently focused on his project. However, he pauses, raising a mischievous gaze to Diggle's. "But, if you'd like to reason with Felicity..."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity takes the proposal better than expected, because she has a mission of her own: To decode the messages broadcast for the French Underground. Jean-Paul can translate the phrases and Felicity will attempt to suss out the hidden communique, which feels like an old-school version of the role she routinely fills for The Arrow. She's fallen a little bit in love with the vintage shortwave radio, which is like a sweet, great-granddaddy to her Netgear.

Felicity takes pity on Oliver, recognizing his inner struggle over leaving her tomorrow.

"I slew...slayed... _destroyed_ the dragons yesterday," she happily chirps, giving Oliver a few reassuring pats on his chest. "So tomorrow, it's your turn."

"We'll leave you well-armed," Oliver assures her.

"Of course you will," she teases. "Although you know my weapon of choice now is a grenade."

"Let's make that a last resort," he remarks, drawing her into his arms. "It would be a shame to blow up our safe house. I've gotten spoiled to sleeping in a bed."

"Mmmm," she agrees. "Me, too. With a roof!"

"And a door," he adds, kissing her lightly.

"And a friend. Of the boy variety."

**> \----->|<\-----<**

The railway bridge is guarded on both ends by bayonet-armed German sentries. It is an hour before sunrise and the Nazis keep the prized bridge shrouded in darkness now that RAF bombers pose a nightly threat. Oliver and Diggle crawl on their elbows towards the nearest target as Roy and Hunter quietly scramble through the ravine below, looking for the weakest point in the bridge's structure, explosives loaded on their backs. Professor Stein is absent, assigned to help a Resistance unit in Cherbourg. Once again wearing the German uniforms, Etienne and Louis are creeping on a parallel line to Oliver and Diggle.

On Oliver's silent signal, the French compatriots continue to advance, closing the distance to the soldier guarding the bridge. Oliver nocks an arrow in the crossbow, his aim following the nearest sentry. At his side, Diggle watches the far end of the bridge through binoculars, waiting for the second guard to turn away. When the moment comes, Digg taps Oliver's shoulder, signaling him to release the arrow. The nearest sentry drops, dead before his knees strike the ground. Instantly, Etienne stands, grabbing the bayonet and assuming the fallen guard's position before the other sentry turns back. Digg drags the dead guard's body over the edge of the bridge as Oliver silently steals forward, kneeling and waiting for the far sentry to reach his center mark, the last step he will take before an arrow pierces his heart. Louis pushes the second felled sentry off the bridge and assumes his duties, now guarding the doomed bridge on behalf of a _France libérée._

Diggle and Oliver go to work in earnest, carefully setting pressure switches atop the rails and dropping fuse cords to Roy and Hunter below. It's slow and arduous, especially when handling high-powered explosives. The passing hours eat on Oliver's nerves. With each minute, he becomes more convinced he shouldn't have left Felicity.

Finally, the bridge is fully wired to explode with the arrival of Savage's train, scheduled to cross within the next hour. 

"I'm heading back," Oliver tells Diggle as they pocket the wirecutters and leftover switches.

"Not going to stay for the fireworks?" Diggle asks, with a note of surprise. "Something wrong?"

"No, just feeling antsy," Oliver admits with a tight shake of his head.

"Want me to come too?" Diggle offers.

"No, man," Oliver reassures him. "I'll cut across country. You can stay to back up the squad. Remember, keep away from Savage.”

Once he's on the move, Oliver is driven to see her. It makes no sense, to be so consumed with fear for Felicity. But he can't shake the ominous worry growing stronger with every mile consumed beneath his long stride.

The broken door, hanging crookedly from the damaged hinge, confirms his dread. Racing across the threshold, Oliver nearly steps on Jean-Paul's hand, lying lifeless on the tile floor. With a heavy heart, Oliver recognizes the machine gun pattern mercilessly stitched in bullets across his friend's chest. He kneels to touch the dead man's neck; it is still warm.

"Felicity!" he calls out, his panicked voice echoing throughout the empty _château_. "Felicity!"

The smashed remains of the shortwave radio tell him the story. With sickening clarity, he remembers the history of the German direction-finding station, used for locating enemy short-wave transmitters. The radio, so enthusiastically repaired by Felicity, was a beacon, leading the Nazis straight to their safe house. And worse, directly to her.

Her broken shoe, scuffed with the heel half-torn from the sole, sparks the agonizing image of Felicity being dragged. Out the door. Away from him. Hot tears prick his eyes as he falls to his knees, gripping her shoe to his chest like a cursed souvenir.

Then The Arrow takes over, yanking Oliver from his emotional break. He can fall apart later, when the outcome is known. Oliver can grieve for the years left to him, if he has lost her. All that matters now is time. The ticking clock. And the miles spreading between them with every passing second.

With iron-willed intent, Oliver climbs the stairs, thrusts the chifferobe aside, and enters the hidden living space. The upturned faces flood him with relief. The refugees were not discovered by the Germans, but undoubtedly heard the recent gunfire. They cannot ask their questions in a language he understands, but their expressions communicate universal emotion: concern, worry, fear.

"You are safe here. I will bring her back," Oliver promises, to himself as much as the Jewish family.

And he is gone.

**> \---->|<\----<**

In a deep ravine, a solitary, charred figure rises from the burning wreckage of the Nazi troop train. Vandal Savage proves his immortality. Of the six hundred passengers, he alone survives, without the nuclear intelligence he so desperately wanted to share with the Germans. This fight just got personal.

**> \---->|<\----<**

She is beautiful, this curvy blonde prisoner whose fingernails have marked his face with deep scratches. Helmut will make her pay for her daring defiance. Like the French traitor, she fought capture and arrest with a ferocity that appalled and aroused him in equal measure. As they speed away from the French _château_ , Helmut wants time alone with this _schöne frau_. Time before he hands her over to his Gestapo supervisors. Time to punish her, bend her to his will.

" _Halten Sie hier an_ ," he commands his driver, who obediently pulls the vehicle into a clutch of trees off the main road. " _Steigen sie aus dem Auto aus."_

The three aides exchange a conspiratorial glance. It is not the first time their _Kapitän_ has demanded private audience with a prisoner, especially when it's a young woman. They've learned how far away to wait so that the disturbing screams will be out of their earshot.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity knows it's a bad thing when the Nazi officer orders the others to leave them in the parked car. The Gestapo agent joins her in the vehicle's roomy backseat, sickening her with a twisted smile that oozes malevolent intent. Helmüt thinks the power is his. Felicity is determined to straighten him out on that assumption.

"He is coming," she asserts with all the force she can muster in the face of this leering bastard. "But, make no mistake. Until he gets here, I won't make this easy for you."

His slap does not surprise her. Felicity doubts he understands her words, but he definitely registers her audacity. It's an open-palm slap, not meant to injure as much as get her attention. Shut her up.

Felicity is not good at shutting up. She's actually terrible at it, a world-class babbler. But words will hopefully buy her time.

"You shouldn't have killed Jean-Paul," she warns him. "He was a good and brave man. I'm thinking you'll pay a high price for taking his life."

Another slap, this one harder, cutting her lip against her teeth. Felicity thinks he is pleased to have drawn first blood. She raises a hand to her injured mouth, catching the first crimson drops on her fingertips.

"You're only making it worse for yourself, Fritz," she adds. "My friend doesn't handle this well. Any threats to my safety. He goes nuckin' futs, if you get my drift."

Lunging at her, the German puts his teeth to her neck, not breaking the tender skin, but biting with enough force to leave a well-defined bruise.

Felicity jams her hand into her pocket, her fingers closing around the Resistance coin, finding the tiny switch to release the sharp, pointed blade. Remembering Digg's self-defense lessons, she thrusts the knife into his jugular while bringing her knee up sharply to push him away from her. Before she can find the door handle, he is on her again, bleeding and enraged. He fumbles at his belt, his hand returning with a mean, slender dagger which he teases along her jawline before slicing her blouse, followed by the straps of her brasierre.

Felicity strains for leverage to put distance between them, but his overpowering mass has her hopelessly pinned against the backseat. Pure panic sets in as she sees his lust-filled eyes and feels the dagger's point outlining the curve of her exposed breast. Tears burn her eyes as her thoughts escape to her Mind Palace, a safe internal space to hide during the unthinkable. Maybe forever.

Then, she's aware of the sudden rush of cool night air against her skin. Felicity is abruptly free of the Nazi's heated weight, realizing she's now blissfully alone in the backseat, half-naked and splattered with her attacker's blood. But alive and unharmed because he has found her.

Oliver.

She vaguely hears the brief, brutal struggle outside of the vehicle. And the unmistakable sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.

Her trembling fingers endeavor to pull the remnants of her ruined blouse together with little success. Then his hands are over hers, large and comforting. Oliver shrugs out of his jacket and strips off his shirt, closing it around her, wrapping her in his warmth and smell. Felicity crumples against him and he buries his face in her hair, whispering her name.

"Did he hurt you?" Oliver growls, agonized by the scene he's interrupted – Felicity with a knife at her breast, minutes from being brutalized.

"No, it's his blood," she says, noticing the small knife that's fallen to the floorboard. "I stabbed him."

"That's my girl," he answers, pride storming in his eyes.

Fearfully, Felicity pivots to look out the side windows, remembering, "There were three others."

Bundling her to his chest, he reassures her, "They're gone. You're safe." Surrendering to shock, she's lost all control of her trembling muscles, now accompanied by the staccato chatter of her teeth.

With tears in her eyes, Felicity sobs, "Oliver, Jean-Paul. They killed him."

"I know. I'm sorry," he consoles, stroking her arm.

"He died for me," she says, her voice small and sad.

Oliver holds her, comforting her with his strength, his solid presence, the steadiness of his voice.

Felicity gradually relaxes, cradled in the haven of Oliver's embrace. When did his broad chest and encircling arms become her home? There's no place she feels as accepted, loved and protected. No man who has trusted and desired her with Oliver's intensity. No time when she has felt more fulfilled.

"I knew you'd come," she murmurs. "I told him so."

"I will always come for you, Felicity. Always."

**> \---->|<\----<**


	20. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Freedom Fighters say farewell to Jean-Paul as Felicity and Oliver cope with the aftermath of the recent attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not posted anything new since last year, having escaped the Goliath blizzard and thoroughly enjoyed holiday travels. As we enter the new year, Team Arrow still struggles to outmaneuver an aggravated immortal and Nazi wackos in 1944.  
> [TRIGGER WARNING: Felicity and Oliver cope with post-traumatic stress in this chapter as a result of her assault.]  
> Your comments and kudos are my compensation. So, thanks in advance for those!

They bury Jean-Paul in a grove of wild apple trees dotted with the delicate pink and white blossoms of spring. Felicity weaves a wreath of wood hyacinths and white anemones to mark the humble grave of their courageous friend, whose true identity will remain lost to the ages.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends," Diggle affirms with quiet dignity.

"And for his country," Oliver adds.

Etienne and Louis say brief prayers in French. Felicity offers a Hebrew blessing, "Have mercy upon him; pardon all his transgressions. Shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings. Make known to him the path of life and bind his soul among the living, that he may rest in peace. And let us say: Amen."

The men echo her "amen" as she sheds defiant tears for the gentle man who grew a warrior's heart, the felled fighter whose call to duty will be answered by those left in his stead.

**> \---->|<\----<**

They return to the _château_ with mixed instincts. Although their safe house has been compromised, Oliver believes the damage has been contained by his extermination of the Gestapo unit. The time travelers know that in the spring of 1944, German forces are spread increasingly thin and the Third Reich is losing its iron grip on occupied lands. It's a gamble for the Resistance group to stay at the _château_ , but bugging out is complicated by the need to protect the Jewish refugee family. In the end, the team members agree to stand their ground if the Nazis return. The clearest decision is this: Felicity will not be separated from Team Arrow again.

She is troubled by the bullet holes and bloodstains scarring their adopted home. Unsettled by Felicity's emotional reaction, Roy scrubs the wooden floors with soap flakes and vinegar. She has been skittish and stressed since her capture, plagued by nightmares of rough hands, wicked knives and teeth gnashing at her throat. Better than anyone, Oliver relates to her anxiety. He is dreaming too. Of Felicity’s tortured breasts beneath a rutting Nazi. Of her lifeless body tumbling into his arms. Of screams dying in her throat. Screams for him to save her.

As a strong, independent woman, Felicity struggles with this onset of post-traumatic fear. As a point of pride, she has never depended on a man for security, financially or emotionally. Part of her resists the powerful compulsion to cling to Oliver. From the beginning of their relationship, she has welcomed his frequent touch, whether conveying reassurance, comfort or affection. And lately, passion. But Felicity accepts that the recent assault has shaken her confidence. She's exhausted by the constant effort to conquer barely-suppressed terror dancing in the shadows.

"PTSD" could aptly be embroidered on Oliver's linens; the letters perfectly represent his trials in overcoming the living nightmare of his five "lost" years. The vivid scars on his body scarcely equate to the damage suffered by his psyche. If there can be a redeeming aspect to his dreadful memories, Oliver has a visceral understanding of Felicity's heightened anxiety. He is uniquely qualified to relate to — and soothe — her wounded spirit.

Felicity ties a silk scarf at her throat to hide the scarlet, curved line of small bruises left by her attacker's bite. But at night, Oliver makes a point of placing tender kisses, just there, reclaiming her body with worship, healing the invasive violence visited on her. With his lips, his tongue, his gentle hands, he yearns to erase the bitter memory of a brutal stranger who tried to cruelly take what should only ever be her sacred gift. For now, Oliver lends Felicity his strength by surrounding her with love and reassurance.  In his arms, she rediscovers trust. In his eyes, she remembers how to be the hopeful, self-reliant woman he sees.

During the day, Oliver keeps Felicity as an active part of the unit, whether strategizing Savage's takedown or setting defensive measures in place, should the Germans stage another attack on the _château_. They have collected more weapons and explosives from their stash in the nearby cave.

An American airman has found his way to their safe house, seeking sanctuary behind enemy lines. Oliver, Diggle and Roy listen to the downed flyer for hours on end, talking vintage planes and air force missions. Felicity is intrigued to discover their passionate interest in this period of history.

Once again deprived of a radio, the team is isolated from their compatriots and Allied intelligence. Every night, two team members keep vigil at a secret drop site nearby where the British OSS at times delivers messages and supplies by parachute.

> **\---- >|<\----<**

"Savage is royally pissed," Hunter declares.

"Well, at least we got his attention," Diggle comments dryly.

Incredulous, Felicity asks, "Did we really want his attention?"

"No," Oliver states with finality. "But now we're on Vandal's radar, we need him out of this war and this century."

"And if Savage has a different idea?" Hunter challenges.

In a quiet voice, threaded with steel, Oliver answers, "I'm a very persuasive guy."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Savage's immortality and fighting prowess keep Felicity awake at night. Secure in Oliver's sleeping embrace, she allows her brain to roam, her perceptive mind stalking the problem.  Understanding him as she does, Felicity fears that Oliver will willingly sacrifice himself in a heroic effort to stop Savage. Regardless of the villain, time or place, he's still got that martyr thing happening, she muses.

"What are you worrying about?" he asks, startling her badly. Again.

"Don't. Do. That!" she chastises him with throaty whispers.

"I'm sorry," he answers, swallowing his amusement. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, the usual," she mutters into her pillow. "You're happy to die a noble death."

"I am?" he asks, somewhat bewildered. "I don't think so."

"Oh, yes," Felicity sighs in defeat.  "Ready to fall on your sword. Or arrow. Or bullet. Although that's not really possible..."

"Felicity," he exhales, kissing her furrowed brow. "Is this about Savage?"

"Well, of course, it's about Savage," she exclaims. "He's our latest Big Bad. But he's got to be put down. Damn the cost to life and limb. Meaning your life. And your limbs. Which I happen to like. A lot."

Felicity runs an appreciative hand up the well-defined muscles of Oliver's arm, spanning his imposing shoulder, her fingertips pausing at the small round scar left by The Count's bullet. She pulls her hand back, almost expecting to see it stained, as it has so often been, with his blood.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling her gaze up to his, "I fight to win. Especially now. Because of you."

"Promise me," she pleads, "That you'll fight to live. You're going to be smart this time? When you face Savage?"

"With you at my back, how could I be anything else?"

**> \---->|<\----<**

When Felicity awakens the next morning, she has the answer.

"Drugs!" she proclaims, sitting bolt upright in bed. "We need drugs!"

Her outburst interrupts Oliver, already dressed, as he ties his bootlaces. "And you think I wake up suddenly..."

Bounding out of the bedcovers, she hops toward him. "I have a strategy figured out. Almost figured out. We can drug him. Immobilize Savage with a mega dose of narcotics. Then Hunter can timejack him the frack out of here."

Felicity's face is lit up like Christmas morning, her hair a sexy, disheveled mess and her silk gown clinging to all the right curves and shadows.

Oliver reverses gears, quickly unlacing his boots and pulling his shirt off. Lifting her easily in his arms, he lays her back in the rumpled bed, covering her soft, welcoming body with his, hard and ready, growling, "Great idea. Let's celebrate."

**> \---->|<\----<**


	21. Yeah, No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all eyes turning towards a critical mission in Paris, a rift separates Oliver and Felicity. Diggle deals with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my dears, we're three months into Timejacked and you'll never know how inspiring and gratifying this effort has been because of your faithful and enthusiastic support. A special shout-out of thanks to Marionnette for kindly offering to help translate my French dialogue! I've no doubt it needs it. ;) This chapter has Felicity and Oliver butting heads, as they occasionally tend to do, but it gives one of my favorite characters, John Diggle, the opportunity to share his strength and wisdom. If you are enjoying your time in war-torn Normandy with Team Arrow, please leave comments and/or kudos. Merci!

Diggle is the team's best source of sedative information, drawing on his experience as a field medic. Morphine is the primary painkiller used during World War II, but there's the challenge of acquiring a large supply without being discovered by unfriendlies. Hunter turns to Etienne and Louis for the names of local doctors who might be with the Resistance, but they come up empty.

 _"Qu'en est-il du vétérinaire ? Le docteur Marchant?"_ Etienne suggests.

"A veterinarian?" Hunter considers the idea.

Team Arrow members exchange glances. Roy expresses their shared thoughts, blurting, "I saw the burnt sonuvabitch after we did the train job. Vandal's the size of a horse, so why not?"

Hunter departs for another Resistance outpost to get the latest radio intelligence as to Savage's location. Etienne and Louis strike out on a morphine/syringe mission while Team Arrow invests their skills towards devising a suitable delivery method.

"I know this will be a wildly unpopular notion," Felicity begins tentatively, "But hear me out. Before unleashing a storm of testosterone."

Roy seems confused, looking for clarity from Oliver and Diggle, who are mutually lost.

Holding the floor, Felicity continues, "In my opinion, which should count for something by now..." She pauses to challenge each of the three crusaders with a pointed gaze, getting a nod in turn from each. With a grateful smile, she goes on, saying, "IMO, the best battle strategy when dealing with a guy like Savage—"

Roy interjects, "You mean a jacked up mutherfu—"

Diggle pops the overgrown kid in the back of the head.

Felicity masks her amusement, saying, "Yep! That would be the one. I feel it's best if we — or you — keep a safe perimeter, attacking only from a distance."

And then the grumbling begins.

"Felicity, it’s not reasonable…"

"What kind of lame-ass fighting is that?"

"We can handle ourselves in a three-against-one battle."

"Felicity."

The petite blonde stamps one small foot in exasperation before yelling, "Larry! Moe! Curly! This is not our time! Or our fight!" Calming herself, Felicity stresses, "This is so much bigger than Team Arrow. The fate of the world hangs in the balance. We’re talking generations of victims. So pack up your male pride, pull up your big girl panties and accept the fact that we cannot risk defeat by getting drawn into your usual _mano a mano_ combat. _Please!_ "

Her impassioned speech partly placates their wounded egos — in spite of the big girl panties — although Roy enjoys nursing a prolonged pout.

With a drawn-out sigh, Oliver is first to respond. "Okay. So our battle plan is to ambush Savage. Using crossbows. From a safe range. But," he pauses, locking eyes with Felicity, "Our backup strategy is that each of us will carry a vial of morphine to be injected. Up close and personal, if necessary."

Not breaking eye contact, Felicity fiercely answers his challenge with one of her own. "Including me. I will go in too. If it comes to that."

Pain crosses Oliver's face. Checkmate. Felicity has dared him to deny her equal stature in this dangerous mission. And in all fairness, he cannot.

She knows. He cannot. No matter how dearly it costs him.

It is Diggle who finally breaks the tension. "Okay, so that's settled. The way I see it, we need to focus on designing a custom bolt that can deliver a mega-dose of morphine."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Oliver does not sleep with Felicity that night. His absence throws a painful shadow across the cold bed they’ve been sharing. Since they fell back in time – how long ago has it been? – this is her first night to be truly alone.  His things are gone from the dresser. All he’s left her is his scent on the pillows that catch her tears. He has retreated emotionally as well, only speaking to her when necessary about the impending job in Paris. It’s as if they are back in The Foundry, when he is utterly focused on an Arrow mission. But without his hovering closeness and frequent gentle touches. Felicity is alone, adrift in a time and place that will never be hers.

Thank God for John Diggle.

Observant and perceptive, Diggle understands Oliver and Felicity in ways no one else can. Because he genuinely cares about both of them, it takes every ounce of his self-control to keep from intervening when they quarrel over their (translation: Oliver’s) asinine issues. Digg remembers his mother saying that people in love are like drunks who need to be watched over until they sober up enough to find their way home. It seems as if his two partners have been mostly blotto about each other for the better part of two years. After landing in the 1940s, John was somewhat hopeful that these two fools were making progress. Until today when Felicity called Oliver out, forcing him to let her put her life at risk alongside his own.

Diggle finds her at midnight, sitting in the darkness of the rustic country kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, now gone cold. She’s fled their bedroom – her bedroom – after accepting that this will be a sleepless night.

“I pushed him too far,” Felicity concedes quietly.

John slides into the chair across from her, resting his elbows on the oak table. “You know, Felicity, I was the first to obsess about whether we could protect you.”

“After Oliver was shot by his mother?” she remembers, thinking it seems so much longer ago than two years.

“You were our responsibility. He’d brought you into a war zone. Against my better judgment,” he notes.  “Back then, Oliver thought we could keep you safe. He knows better now.”

“I got shot, you know,” Felicity discloses.

“You mean here?” he asks in alarm. “When did this happen?”

She lets out a sigh, trying to sort out the meaning of a “when” question while time traveling.  “I guess we’d been here about a week. Oliver threw me out of a moving train when the French Gestapo showed up with guns. The bullet grazed my ribs," her hand lightly touching the injury. "Oliver carried me to a farmhouse and stitched me up. So now, I’m a bonafide, scarred-up member of the Bad Ass Club.”

Digg chuckles softly, shaking his head, saying, “You were always bad ass, Felicity.”

“Where is he, Digg?” she asks.

“In the barn. I think he rigged up something he can hit. You know how happy that makes him,” Digg explains with a weak grin.

After a silent spell, she prods for answers, “He’s broken, isn’t he?”

“Yes. You know Oliver’s damaged,” Digg responds, his words simple and true. “For a long time, he was lost. During the years he was gone, he had no control of his life.”

“That’s why it’s so important for him to have it now?” she suggests. “Over everyone?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s still my choice. How much risk I’m willing to assume as his partner,” she declares. “I’ve earned that right. Haven’t I, Digg?”

“Yes. You have, Felicity,” he assures her. “We just can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.”

“I get hurt every night,” she confesses softly. “When I’m alone in The Foundry, listening on the coms to body blows and gunfire. The sound of a neck breaking." She shudders at the remembered, unnerving sound, wishing this wasn't a noise she had reason to recognize. "I never know if my friends are coming back.  Or if I’m hearing them die in a dark alley.”

Diggle gently covers her small clenched hands with his large, warm ones.

“Oliver is too willing to sacrifice his life, ignoring the suffering of those he might leave behind. While he can’t stand the thought of me getting a splinter,” she protests.  “I don’t think he realizes how unbearable it would be for me to bury him.”

“So tell him.”

**> \---->|<\----<**

Hunter returns at midday with news. According to Resistance intelligence, Savage is in Paris at the opulent _Hotel Meurice,_ appropriated by the Nazis and serving as headquarters of the German occupation.  By day, he brainstorms with German authorities. After hours, he indulges a greedy appetite for fine French champagne and beautiful women, both of which are in ample supply for a professional soldier of his importance.

It’s clear that the team is Paris-bound. They wait for Professor Stein to rejoin them as his Germanic knowledge and language skills will be crucial to pull off Operation Coma. While the others travel by train, the Gestapo agent Stein will motor to Paris in the Mercedes with his "mistress" Felicity, his "driver" Oliver and his "servant” Diggle. Assigning such a demeaning undercover role to Digg horrifies Felicity. It's bad enough that he sometimes has to pose as Oliver's black chauffeur in Starling City. But in order to protect Digg from Aryan retribution, their choices are limited by the cultural and wartime realities of the 1940s, regardless of how abhorrent they were — and are.

Felicity would normally be giddy over the notion of seeing Paris, the exquisite City of Love, but considering the present state of her relationship with Oliver the Grouch, her reaction is tepid at best. She spends most of the day packing for the road trip, which she guesses will take about five hours. Margot was kind enough to provide more "girl clothes" for the expedition since she'll be serving as Professor Stein's arm candy. At least she will be distracted from her current boy troubles.

He's still mad. Or emotionally blocked. Or his feelings are wounded. With Oliver, it's not always easy to pinpoint which dark cloud he's living under at any given moment. It is clear however that he wants space. Away from Felicity. That bruises her more than she'd like to admit.

"You want me to put the hurt on that boy?" Diggle asks as they finish packing her things in the car. "You know I can do it."

Giving him a wistful smile, Felicity lays her head on his enormous bicep. "You know Digg, I think he does that all by himself." He pats her shoulder and kisses the top of her hair.

"Goodnight, Felicity."

"Night, Digg."

As she drags to her room, Felicity realizes how weary she is, hoping her exhaustion will coax a night of deep, undisturbed sleep. When she opens the bedroom door, she's met with the sight of the copper bathtub, filled with steaming hot water, a box of French chocolates on her nightstand and a wild yellow rose on her pillow. Dammit, how'd he know yellow roses are her favorite? And, who'd he kill for chocolate?

**> \---->|<\----<**


	22. A City in Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time travelers head to Paris, a beautiful city held hostage by The Third Reich. As they search for their intended target, Oliver and Felicity find something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate your patience as I wrote this chapter, which required more research than some of my postings. I owe a tremendous debt to Marionnette for her help repairing 21 chapters of my errors in French dialogue. Now, I need a charitable reader who is fluent in German... ;)  
> Your comments and kudos are the sprinkles on my cupcake, so please feel free to leave them. I am humbled by —and grateful for — them and you.

Felicity feels pretty. She may be bound for epic disaster, the downfall of future generations and heartaches galore, but this morning she's looking fine and that's what she's choosing to contemplate. Last night's glorious bath — and the tokens of reconciliation — did wonders for her spirits. There was no doubt that the tub, chocolates and rose came from Oliver. Did last night's sweet gestures indicate a crack in his stony resolve?

Whatever the answer, the sun is shining on a beautiful spring morning in the French countryside and Felicity Smoak cleans up good. She takes a last check in the standing oval mirror. Seams straight. Vintage dress adorable. Hair shining in a soft, feminine 1940s style swept away from her face. Chunky heels nicely showing off her legs. If Oliver is on the fence, this should give him a shove into her backyard.

She grabs her small silk, clutch bag which contains the all-important identity papers forged by herself and Professor Stein. Felicity will again be posing as a French citizen under the guise of Félicité Chauvet, insisting on a familiar given name. When your true identity is rooted in 2014 on the other side of the pond, an alias in Europe during World War II seems like overkill. Early on, they adopted fake names to protect the other Resistance fighters, but Team Arrow plans — _hopes_ — to be back in Starling City as soon as a comatose Savage can be timejacked. For Felicity's money, Hunter can haul Savage's immortal behind all the way back to the Jurassic period.

When she appears on the front steps of the _château_ , three pairs of male eyes stare appreciatively at the approaching petite blonde who could easily be a pinup in any decade. But Felicity's only goal with this get-up is to catch and keep the attention of one particular pair of stormy blue eyes. Oliver does not disappoint, his intense gaze locked on her as she reaches the Mercedes, taking Diggle's outstretched hand as she enters the backseat, greeting Professor Stein with a dimpled smile and studiously avoiding the slack-jawed driver.

Sharing the roomy backseat with the learned professor is entertaining and enlightening, easing the stress of the road trip and the hazardous mission they are undertaking.

"You know, Miss Smoak, Oscar Wilde wrote that 'When good Americans die, they go to Paris,'" Professor Stein tells her, earning a grin for his efforts. During the long ride, he tutors Felicity in basic French phrases, assisting her with grammar and pronunciation. As they get closer to Paris, their route becomes more congested with German military traffic. At this point in the war, the Nazis are fortifying the western coast of France in preparation for the invasion they know is coming. The time travelers view an ominous parade of troop trucks, flatbeds loaded with weapons and rumbling tanks.

"I've lost all track of the weeks. D-Day is how far away?" Felicity asks, embarrassed that she is unsure of where they are on the war's timeline.

Three male voices answer in grim unison, "Four weeks."

It's a sobering thought, the realization that more than four hundred thousand lives will be lost here in less than a month during the invasion of Normandy. Each of the travelers deals with conflicting emotions: A desire to return home warring with a sense of obligation to stay and fight with the Allies.

Oliver Queen is no stranger to Paris. His mother had a fondness for French couture so the family visited Europe regularly during his childhood. As a young man, he and Tommy Merlyn enjoyed summers on the Riviera, although those memories are foggy due to the fact the frat boys were half-baked or drunk most of the time.

But this Paris, invaded and occupied by the Third Reich, is a dark shadow of the illustrious city. A voluminous Swastika flag drapes the face of the distinctive Eiffel Tower. Two million Parisians have abandoned their homes, fleeing the jackboots that marched into the capital four years ago. The city's public buildings have been seized for nefarious acts: torture, interrogations, executions. Celebrated art galleries and museums have been looted and padlocked. Like much of Europe and Russia, Paris is a beautiful, majestic lady, raped and held captive by the Nazi regime. But her magnificent architecture still marvels Felicity, her eyes huge, feasting on the historical sites lining the busy thoroughfares.

"There it is," Professor Stein points out the elegant _Hôtel Meurice_ as they drive past the lavish structure on the rue de Rivoli. Oliver and Diggle scrutinize the passing pedestrians, searching for a particular dark-skinned, six-and-a-half foot devil.

"At least Savage should be easy to spot," Digg remarks from the front seat.

Oliver loops around the famous landmarks as they scout for advantageous sites to monitor their target. Nearby are the impressive _Tuileries_ Gardens, adjacent to The _Louvre_ and the _Place de la Concorde,_ bristling with barbed wire. They drive through the heart of Paris, mindful of this critical time and place in history. Coco Chanel makes her home at the ritzy _Place Vendôme_ , which does double-duty as headquarters to the highest-ranking German officers, including Reichsmarshal Hermann Göring.

Parking the car near the Tuileries, the team members get oriented with their surroundings and discuss strategies in the privacy afforded by the Mercedes before assuming their subterfuge identities. Their first conclusion: The oak and chestnut trees of the gardens should provide suitable roosts for ambush by crossbow. Next, as a Gestapo agent, Stein will attempt to book adjoining rooms at the _Hôtel Meurice_ for himself and his "staff." Hunter and Roy, traveling by train from Cherbourg, should arrive by tomorrow morning.

Ironically, Oliver chooses Rodin's sculpture, _Le Baiser_ , near the entrance of the closed Orangerie Museum, as their future meeting site should they be separated. He coolly gazes at Felicity, one eyebrow raised, as she takes in the larger-than-life statue of two naked lovers. Oh so naked. _Le Baiser_. Meaning The Kiss.

Well played, Mr. Queen.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Stein and Felicity enter the lobby of _Hôtel Meurice_ and it takes all of her concentration to keep her jaw from dropping to the gorgeous marble floors. Her eyes devour the hotel's ornate gilding, glittering chandeliers, antique beveled mirrors and massive bay windows framed in rare marble. If Felicity never visits the Palace of Versailles, this is a close runner-up.

"Shut the front door," she murmurs, earning a quelling look from Dr. Stein as they approach the registration desk. The professor, in complete, overbearing Gestapo mode, arranges for accommodations, this time speaking fluent French. Felicity hangs on his arm in her role as besotted mistress, or as Roy has colorfully dubbed her, the professor's "French Ho."

On the street, a German guard has spotted Diggle in the front seat of the Mercedes. As the soldier advances, Diggle groans, "Here we go..."

Oliver's mind scrambles, searching for a way around the fact that he's wearing a Nazi uniform, but can't speak a _verdammt_ word of German. And he's traveling with a black man in the front seat of a stolen Gestapo car. In broad daylight on a busy street.

The soldier leans into the car window, studying their faces.

" _Heil Hitler! Haben Sie Ihre Ausweispapiere?"_ he demands.

Oliver and Diggle make an educated guess, pulling their forged IDs from their pockets for his scrutiny.

 _"Warum sind Sie hier?"_ he asks.

Oliver's hands tighten on the big steering wheel as he tensely wonders if passersby would notice a German guard being jerked through a car window.

 _"Gib mir eine Antwort! Warum bist du hier?"_ the guard yells, his face reddening as Oliver diligently ignores him.

A stern, loud voice behind the guard draws attention to an angry professor Stein, bearing down on them. In fierce German, the older man reprimands the guard for hasseling his staff. The guard turns submissive, making himself scarce, as Stein gives his team the signal to unload the luggage.

Diggle expels a sigh of relief. Oliver regrets he couldn't release his pent-up burst of fury. "Save it for Savage," Diggle advises, slapping his partner's shoulder in camaraderie.

Stein opens the car door and quietly explains he was only able to reserve two rooms. Digg and Oliver give a quick nod of understanding. Oliver stays with the car while Diggle dutifully plays the luggage-toting servant, following the professor back into the luxury hotel.

Felicity moves into the second room, thrilled by the balcony view of Paris at her feet. The individual rooms are lovely, appointed with beautiful finishes and fine fabrics. Intending to sneak a brief catnap, she slips off her shoes and stretches out on the bed.

Hours later, a soft knock rouses Felicity, astonished to see the evening sun setting on the Seine. She tumbles off the comfy bed, running her fingers through her tangled hair on the way to the door. Opening it, she finds Oliver waiting.

Not trusting her sleep-fogged mind to speak her limited smattering of French, she opens the door wide, gesturing for him to enter. Oliver checks to make certain there are no witnesses to him strolling into the hotel room of a Gestapo agent's mistress. Satisfied the hallway is empty, he deftly crosses her threshold and closes the door.

Felicity steps back, needing space between them. She's not certain why he's making her nervous. Maybe it's the damn uniform. Oliver respects her jitters, making no move to close the gap.

"The professor has invited you to join him for supper downstairs," Oliver politely relates.

"I see. That's very kind of him," she replies, sounding a bit starchy. "Did you and Digg find a place to stay?"

"Well, I did. Digg will be an unseen guest. We’re not far from here."

An awkward moment of silence stretches between them. Finally, seeking eye contact, Oliver says, "Felicity?"

"I need some time," she spouts, speaking a little too fast. Then, after a calming deep breath, she adds, "Please let Dr. Stein know that I need a little more time and will meet him in the lobby."

"Of course," he answers, turning back to the door.

"Wait," she says, stepping past him, her hand lightly touching his forearm. "Let me make sure the hallway is clear."

Felicity cracks the door, peering in each direction before giving him a thumbs up.

As he passes by, he pauses at her side, lowering his lips to her ear and whispering, "Enjoy your evening, Felicity."

And then he is gone.

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity enjoys dining in _La Meurice Restaurant_ with Dr. Stein more than she would have anticipated. Above them, a mural of painted angels float against a perpetual blue sky. The food is good, the wine exceptional and his company charming. Because they are in public, he prompts her with the French questions they have been practicing. She only lets "oh, frack!" slip in one instance.

After supper, the kindly professor walks Felicity to his room, making a show of their intimacy. But once inside, he is every bit the gentleman, formally escorting her to the door connecting their rooms before kissing her hand and bidding goodnight.

Felicity steps through the darkness onto her balcony, viewing the cityscape by moonlight. The melody of _Clair de Lune_ , performed by a violinist on the sidewalk below, adds to her melancholy, her mind a jumble of languages, strategies and feelings. Why had she felt so antsy around Oliver this evening? Was it just the despised German uniform? Fear of rejection after their recent rift? Or just uncertainty about his thoughts, his desires? Apparently, his anger has dissipated, leaving them where?

Felicity senses his presence near her on the balcony before she sees him. Oliver waits for her response, prepared to exit as quietly as he arrived. He's Batman, she thinks, because her brain is silly in those moments when she should be profound. I'm in love with Batman. And there's nothing for it.

Felicity takes one step into his arms, snuggling her face to his neck, inhaling his scent like an addict. Oliver threads his fingers through the silk of her hair while his other hand spans her lower back, pressing her closer, needing more contact. Raising her upturned face, Felicity seeks his striking gaze, craving that connection, the wordless expressions telling her what his voice cannot. Sometimes, words are overrated.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	23. A Stalk, a Talk and a Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Vandal Savage in their sights, the time travelers prepare to take him out. Oliver and Felicity get real about today and tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me places I did not expect to go, but who am I to stand in the way of impetuous young lovers? In Paris. In Springtime. I hope you're happy with the out-of-control Olicity. 
> 
> Special thank yous to my faithful foreign language experts Marionnette, AerynSun75 and acheaptrickandacheesyoneline for cleaning up my French and German dialogue. 
> 
> And to my readers: This story continues to give me such joy to write because of your enthusiastic support and encouragement. I am grateful for each of you and for the Archive of Our Own for providing a launching pad for writers like me. Please share your comments and kudos if so inspired.

When Felicity spots Vandal Savage on that morning in Paris, the hairs on her neck vibrate with foreboding. A powerhouse of a man, he emanates cruelty and superiority. He terrifies her.

On their third day in Paris, the professor and Felicity see Savage at a corner bistro, casually taking coffee with three German officials. He is a  physically-imposing tower of hulking bones and sinew with brutish features. Dr. Stein and Felicity snag seats at the cafe, close enough to overhear their target's conversation in guttural German. By taking five steps, Felicity could be near enough to jab a syringe in his thick, corded neck.  But the presence of so many bystanders makes a public place, like a restaurant, unsuitable for an ambush. They need an enticing lure to draw this villain out into an open, isolated area where he can be dosed and transported to a distant century in the past. Without witnesses or interference from his Third Reich buddies.

Four more sets of sharp eyes watch the tableau from afar. Oliver and Diggle monitor the bistro from the Mercedes while Hunter and Roy scope the action from across the thoroughfare. Savage's advantages — his size and build — are uppermost in Diggle's and Roy's minds as they consider the type of fighter it will take to defeat him. Roy thinks his teammates might need the boost from a Mirakuru cocktail to deal with this giant. Hunter's main concern is separating Savage from the Nazi cocoon spun by his German collaborators.

During his years away, Oliver was brutally schooled in the art of defeating an opponent. The ultimate lesson was this: Discover your opponent's deepest desire and you will have the key to controlling him. For weeks, he has brooded over Savage and what drives him. To set a trap, it's critical to use the most tempting bait. While his partners are distracted by Savage's strengths, Oliver hones in on the warrior's chief weakness: an insatiable, arrogant hunger for dominance. And that is how they will bring him down.

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Why, Oliver?" Felicity whimpers when she learns of their planned meeting site: the vast underground network of tunnels used by the Parisian Resistance for secret rendezvous and hiding places.

"Why are you always making me work underground like a mole?" she demands. "I'm obviously a sunshine and rainbow kind of girl. Don't make me go down. Oh hell, my mouth went there again."

"I like your mouth," Oliver remarks with a mischievous grin, "Wherever it ends up." He punctuates his double entendre with a soft kiss. "But safe meeting places are scarce here."

"Well, I think the French Underground is being a bit too literal," she harrumphs.

"You ready to go?" Oliver asks, pulling on his jacket.

Throwing her hands up in resignation, she says, "Sure, why not? But if this trend continues, we're getting a canary."

Following her into the professor's adjoining room, Oliver mutters, "A canary?"

"Think about it," she growls.

**> \---->|<\----<**

"He knows you, right?" Oliver questions Hunter as they brainstorm in a hidden underground room.

Felicity clamps down on her frantic desire to bolt. Here she is, buried alive under the streets of Paris, in close proximity to the city's sewers and catacombs, which is basically the world's largest grave.

"Yeah," Hunter replies. "We've crossed paths through the centuries."

Roy and Felicity exchange eyerolls because their jobs are sometimes just preposterous.

"Does he see you as a friend or foe?" Diggle asks.

"We've never crossed swords, but we haven't braided each other's hair either," Hunter admits.

"You're about to make him an offer he can't refuse," Oliver announces with finality. "The kind of power that would complete his invincibility."

"He's an immortal gangsta," Roy asserts. "How much more damn power does he need?"

"The kind wielded by a Time Master," Felicity proposes, looking to Oliver to confirm her hunch.

"Exactly," Oliver says with a nod. "The ability to travel independently through time would be too sweet a temptation for someone like Savage to ignore."

"You want me to give Savage my secrets to entering the Timestream," Hunter states dubiously.

"Not give. Offer," Oliver clarifies.

"Hopefully," Diggle adds, "He'll be comatose before there's any giving."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"We need to talk."

"Yes, Felicity," Oliver sighs. "We can talk."

It is late. Oliver has crept into Felicity's hotel room using her balcony again as his private entrance. Since the Germans came to town, there's a strict eight o'clock curfew on the streets of Paris.

Felicity curls into a French Provincial chair upholstered in pastel shades of rich satin and velvet. Oliver chooses a brocade-covered wall to lean into, his arms folded loosely over his chest.

"We never worked out our last..." she stutters to a stop.

"Issue?" he offers helpfully.

"Our last concern," she decides.

"Felicity, you're one of us. I'd never want you to think I don't consider you a full partner in every mission," he professes, crossing to her and kneeling at her side.

"And yet, you want to keep me hidden away. Out of harm's way," she reminds him, without bitterness.

Oliver lowers his head, reaching for her hand as he searches for the words that will help her understand his deep-seated fear.

"I've known loss, Felicity. My parents. Shado. Tommy." Oliver lifts his face to hers. "I can't lose another person I care about. I can't bear to lose _you_. It would be the end of me."

"Oliver," Felicity murmurs, her hand touching framing his jaw, "Can't you see? It's the same for me? If something were to happen to you? How could I go on?"

He leans in, his forehead resting on hers as a tear spills down her cheek.

"Perhaps we're in the wrong line of work," he jokes weakly.

Felicity surrenders a tear-stained giggle. "You think?"

Oliver stands, lifts Felicity in his arms and sits with her in his lap, her face nuzzling into his neck.

"I can't always be the one left behind," Felicity says, her voice small and sad. "Don't leave me alone, terrified for you. For all of you. Please, Oliver."

"I won't, Felicity," he promises, kissing her temple. "God help me, I won't."

**> \---->|<\----<**

"He's going to smell a friggin' rat," Roy dourly predicts.

"Even if he suspects a trap," Oliver says, "Savage thinks he's invincible."

"So we're hoping he doesn't take this threat seriously?" Diggle asks, loading the customized bolt syringes into a satchel.

"I've been reading about him," Felicity volunteers. "Well, not exactly. The professor and I had some free time this afternoon so we visited _la bibliothèque._ "

"You went dancing? With the old guy?" Roy blurts, puzzled and mildly peeved.

Diggle shakes his head in disbelief.

"They went to the library," Oliver explains.

"It didn't _sound_ like a library," Roy retorts defensively.

"Doctor Stein did the actual reading. Because the books here are all in French, which is obvious and redundant information," Felicity babbles, then regains her focus. "But we learned stuff about the legendary Vandal Savage. Who it turns out, is Cain."

"The Cain? As in Abel and Cain?" Digg asks.

"Yes, that Cain. Digg gets points for listening during Sunday School," Felicity remarks with a grin.  "Adam and Eve's boy gone bad. The world's first stone cold killer."

"Cool," Roy comments, then seeing his team's disapproval, adds, "Well, it _is_ interesting."

"Not to mention his other  _noms de guerre_. Blackbeard. Genghis Khan. Julius Caesar. And my favorite, Jack the Ripper," Felicity ticks the list off on her fingers. "Oh, and his weapons of choice are all the classics: swords, battle axes, maces and throwing knives.

"So, Savage is pretty much the embodiment of ancient evil," Felicity frets. "He's had a lot of time to perfect his craft."

"His arrogance could be his undoing," Oliver suggests.

 "Or ours..." Felicity sighs.

**> \---->|<\----<**

The next day, the team splits into pairs to scout ambush locations with Oliver claiming Felicity as his partner. "Is that allowed?" she asks uncertainly. "Aren't I supposed to be the professor's sweet thang?"

"Not today," Oliver says, producing a scarf and wide-brimmed hat. "Today," he whispers against her lips, "You're mine."

"Well this get-up is very Audrey Hepburn," she comments happily, effectively covering her blond hair with the items as she steps to the hotel room mirror. "I like."

"Just to be safe, we won't leave together," he explains. Then, dipping under the hat brim to drop a quick kiss, he adds, "I'll meet you at the book shop on the corner. In fifteen."

Oliver goes through the professor's room to exit the hotel.

They find each other in the stacks of the tiny shop. Although many of Paris' most famous sites have been closed by the occupation, Oliver and Felicity spend a glorious, romantic afternoon in the city, abandoning their public undercover roles for a few brief hours to be what they've become — lovers.

At dusk, they stroll hand-in-hand along the Seine with the unmistakable skyline of Paris as their horizon. The setting sun kindles flaming colors on the field of clouds above them.

"Felicity," Oliver begins, "I've been thinking."

She looks to his face, checking his mood, which has transitioned from carefree to earnest.

"About?" she prompts.

"About us. About our being together all these weeks," he says, adding, "All these nights."

Felicity gives him time, in a babble-free zone, to choose his words, sensing they are significant.

"Because we are here, in these hazardous times, facing such danger, I need to... I want to..." he stammers to a halt, along with his feet.

Concerned, Felicity stops, searching his face and asking, "Oliver?"

He expels a tight laugh, "I'm not doing this right. Not the way you deserve."

"It's okay, Oliver," she reassures him with a smile. Her sweet smile.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver kneels, catching her hands in his, his face upturned to hers.

"Felicity, I love you. In ways, I've never loved before. You heal the broken parts of me. You're the light I follow through darkness. You're the music I thought I'd lost."

"Oliver," she breathes his name through sudden tears.

"This may not be the right time. Or place," he admits with a slight shake of his head. "But I can't let another uncertain day pass. I have no ring to give you. And we may not have tomorrow. But Felicity, I need to know you're mine, in every hour that follows this one. I want you to be my forever, my always. Will you marry me?"

Felicity experiences at least forty emotions at once: shock, fear, glee, hysteria. But one reaction rises to subdue all the rest. Absolute, dazzling love for this man. This maddening, mulish, noble, beautiful man — Oliver Queen.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	24. The Long Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like most well-thought-out plans, the ambush of Savage takes a terrible turn. Felicity stands for justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just trust me.

It all goes to hell in less than three minutes.

The first syringe, prematurely fired by Roy, strikes Savage in the center of his massive chest, falling useless to the flagstone paving at his feet.

"What the—" Roy stutters from his high vantage point in a towering oak tree of Tuileries Garden. "That should've stuck."

"He's wearing some type of body armor," Oliver calls out, adjusting his aim to the target's throat but Vandal has spun away, wielding a raised sword. Oliver's syringe misses by a whisper. On the ground in flanking positions, Diggle and Hunter catapult wire nets that tangle around Savage to retard his defensive moves.

Seeing an opportunity, Oliver drops from a tree branch and hits the ground running, a large syringe in his hand as he lunges toward the villain's throat. Roy follows up with another hit of morphine shot into Savage's leg. The giant tilts and falls sideways as Diggle plunges a third syringe into his arm.

Felicity emerges from the line of trees, another syringe ready in her hand as she cautiously approaches the prone figure. All eyes are on Savage, assessing his condition, giving every indication that he is unconscious.

Hunter pulls a morphine dose from his vest and injects it as well. "Let's not take any chances on this guy coming to."

Felicity steps closer with her syringe, but Roy takes it, blocking her from coming any closer to this notorious killer. "Let me, Blondie, okay?"

She nods, just relieved that Savage is down and out.

"Felicity?"

Something in the uncertain tone of Oliver's voice arrests her. He is on his knees at Savage's side, looking up, searching for her face in the gathering darkness. Felicity turns to him and all the breath leaves her lungs as her eyes fall to the dagger, buried to the hilt in Oliver's chest.

"No," she cries, flying towards him. "No, Oliver. Oh, dear God."

He is falling forward as Diggle reaches him, easing Oliver onto his back. Felicity lifts his head into her lap, trying to quell the hysteria rising in her chest.

Oliver gives an involuntary moan as Diggle shifts him to get a better glimpse of the knife and where it has struck. "Easy, Oliver. Just lie still. It's going to be okay."

Felicity looks to John for an answer, her heart clenched, tears streaking her face.  But Digg can't hide the grim truth from her. Felicity's hand flies to her mouth in horror at the sudden wrongness of it all. They shouldn't even be here, in this wretched time, this hopeless place. Oliver's lifeblood shouldn't be staining the pavement of occupied Paris. The agonized sob rising from her chest feels as if it's ripping out her throat.

Hunter, standing over them, asks, "How bad is it?"

"He needs a hospital, probably a surgeon," Digg sighs bitterly. "And not in this place. He needs 21st century care. In Starling City, where we all belong."

Hunter looks between them and the unconscious monster stretched out behind him. Two men are down and The Time Master can only transport one because of their opposing destinations. Felicity instantly recognizes the harrowing choice they face.

"No," she pleads. "You have to take Oliver home. You have the power to save him."

"It could be weeks before I make it back from the future," Hunter explains, sounding distressed. "Truly, I wish I could, but..." His voice fades to silence because Hunter knows that any reason will be hollow considering the sacrifice he is suggesting.

Roy, cussing a blue streak, yanks Hunter in the air, his Mirakuru rage unleashed.

Digg stands, grabbing Roy's shoulder in an effort to calm him. "Put him down, Harper. This isn't helping."

Felicity's anguished cry of Roy's name cuts through his fog of fury and he reluctantly releases Hunter, who stumbles to regain his footing.

"Felicity?"

Oliver has been roused by her distress, drawing her complete focus back to him. Only him.

She lowers her face over his, her falling tears bathing his neck.

"Oliver, I'm here," she consoles him with a heartbreaking smile, before kissing his lips.

Oliver makes a heroic effort to rise, gasping in pain before relapsing.

"Shhh," Felicity murmurs, tenderly stroking his face. "Just rest."

Raising her head, she calls out, "Diggle!"

Digg kneels at Felicity's side, his hand large and comforting on her shoulder. "I'm here."

"Savage... he has a sword?" she asks.

Surprised at her question, Diggle answers, "Um yeah, I think a broadsword."

"Good," she says, her voice ringing. "Take his head."

"What?" Digg replies, caught completely off guard.

"I'm not willing to trade Oliver's life for that miscreant. We're ending this. Today. Take Savage's head. Sever it from his shoulders and put it in your rucksack," she commands.

"Felicity, are you sure?" Diggle asks, concerned for her state of mind.

"This is on me. Do it," Felicity demands, jerking her chin in Savage's direction. "This is justice for the blood of the innocent. This is his reckoning day. And it's Oliver's only chance."

Diggle looks to Hunter, then Roy, waiting for their silent assent.

It is done. A terrible evil is cast out of the world, banished from the future, clearing the way for the certain, imminent defeat of Hitler's murderous regime. As decreed by a petite blonde woman with an unwavering moral compass.

Felicity wheels on Turner. "Now, you! We've done our part. You're getting us home tonight. And I'm holding you responsible for Oliver's life. God help you if I lose him."

Still holding the bloody sword, Diggle steps into Hunter's personal space, growling, "I just took a man's head without a qualm. So you should know, God won't have the chance to help you if we lose our brother."

"And everybody knows I'm batshit crazy," Roy casually remarks with a crooked smile, deftly spinning the crossbow in his hand. "So you better listen to Blondie."

With a gruesome souvenir in their rucksack, with new scars and eternal tears for those lost in this terrible war, bearing a new life created by a love that grew from a broken place, they begin their long fall home.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	25. We'll Always Have Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Arrow endures a painful homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so tough to begin because it felt as if I was starting over. In a way, I hated leaving WWII because it was so challenging and rewarding to have these characters live through that remarkable era. But, once I let Felicity lead the way, the words began to fall into place. I think we're nearing the end of this story, unless the characters take me further than expected.  
> I continue to be uplifted by your generous comments and kudos. You've all been a wonderful audience to entertain.

Nothing in Felicity's world feels normal. After their months in 1940s Europe, she's astonished by how difficult it is returning to her daily life in 2014. This time and place should be her native realm, her home turf. Why does it all seem so foreign?

Even her body is different, somehow disjointed, clumsy and out-of-sync with her brain. Her periods are out-of-whack. Let’s see, the last one was 840 months ago. And the cherry on top: she's experiencing fuzzy brain too. Perhaps time travel causes a unique form of jet lag. Studies should be done, Felicity vows.

For months, she's craved the comforts and conveniences of her sweet apartment: a flushing potty, massaging showerhead and central heat. Her large bed with pillowtop mattress. Netflix and Wi-Fi and IPhones and Google. They've faded to insignificance. Because her apartment is empty, her bed is lonely, even her beloved technology fails to fill the void.

To her surprise, she misses the rustic country château, the openness of the French people who befriended them, the natural beauty of Normandy. Even the copper bathtub. But most of all, she aches for Oliver who was at her side, his barriers down, his arms open, his heart and body given without hesitation.

Seeing him so still and weakened now adds to the surreal quality of her days — and nights. He barely survived Savage's attack, with doctors saying he was literally saved by his strength — his highly-developed muscles and dense sternum deflected the blade from his heart. But the internal damage was considerable nevertheless: cracked sternum, punctured lung, nicked arteries, broken ribs and bruised liver.

During the first week, three surgeries were necessary before his condition finally stabilized. Felicity would not leave the hospital, too afraid he might die while she was away. Diggle and Roy took turns badgering her, insisting she take a break from the confining halls of the hospital. But she would have none of it.

Of course, they don't know. About Oliver's sunset proposal on the banks of the Seine. That she said "yes!" all night long. That she's terrified his feelings will change now that they've returned. When he's recovered from his injuries, will he relegate their love story to the distant past? "Because of the life he leads..."

In spite of the danger, loss and fear, their wartime romance was idyllic, but feels so far removed from the here and now. During their time away, Felicity and Oliver were bound only to each other, in a time that was leaner, less complicated. Can the exquisite fire that's ignited between them be rekindled now that they're resuming their established roles of emotionally-repressed crimefighter and his lovestruck girl Wednesday?

Is it possible to recapture the magic of those long ago yesterdays?

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Felicity?" Oliver's voice is hoarse and cracked from disuse.

She stumbles from the torturous hospital cot, half-asleep and disoriented, before she remembers their circumstances. He's awake and calling her name for the first time in six endless days.

"I'm here, Oliver," she assures him with an exhausted smile. Her hands reach for him, one cradling his face and the other wrapping around his fingers. "Hey," she murmurs.

"Hey," he answers softly. "I guess I lived."

"Looks that way," Felicity says, so relieved to see his steady gaze, again linked with hers.

"Are we back?" he asks.

"We are. Back where we belong. In good old 2014."

"All of us?"

With a nod of her blond curls, she explains, "We brought Diggle and Roy back too. They're taking turns patrolling as your alter ego every night."

Oliver attempts to shift in the bed, his face contorting in pain.

"Oh, Oliver, your sternum's cracked so any movement is going to... Well, now you know what any movement will do," she babbles, a bit out of practice.

Even this minor exertion tires him.

"What about Savage?" Oliver wants to know.

"Taken care of," Felicity answers with finality, smoothing the bed covers. "That's enough talk for now. Just rest."

She leans down for a kiss that feels painfully one-sided. Felicity rises and Oliver turns his face from her before closing his eyes. She feels it happening. He's already pulling away.

For the first time in six days, Felicity leaves the hospital, driving to her apartment with tears in her throat and a stone in her chest.

**> \---->|<\----<**

He is driven with single-minded determination to regain his strength and stamina, shutting out all distractions. Including Felicity. Within a month, he is back in the Foundry, grinding through his workouts, although the salmon ladder is still out of the question, even for a masochist like Oliver.

Felicity takes an IT job at Palmer Industries to pay the bills and preserve her sanity. She continues to bring her hacking and techno skills to team Arrow each night, supporting Digg and Roy as they're out monitoring the streets, although the criminals of Starling City seem to be on holiday. She's felt puny for the last couple of weeks, plagued with an upset tummy and exhaustion. If she felt better, Felicity might be considering a change. A different town. Different life. Away from this heartache. But the lobotomy she would need to forget Oliver might impair her future career options.

She prefers he be rude or mean to her because she would be justified in reacting to his bad behavior.  But how can she talk about emotions when this version of Oliver 3.0 clearly has none? He's laser-focused on a mission to regain his Arrow title and his heart has apparently gone out of business. Felicity thinks maybe she'll go over and throw-up on him just to get some personal response. At this point, she welcomes his anger, disgust, even hatred. Because this wax figure of the man she loves is destroying her.

She can't forget the smell of his skin, the tenderness of his kiss, the unguarded smiles, waking in his arms, his breath on her neck, the completion she knew when he moved inside her, the comfort of his fingers laced with hers. As long as she lives, she will never lose Paris. He invaded her heart by revealing his. Felicity can't — won't — bury the memory of a moonlit dance, the sorrows they shared, the intimate revelations they learned as lovers, their naked trust in each other.

She can't get over the happiness they found.

**> \---->|<\----<**

 "That sonuvabitch is nuts," Roy tells Felicity. He's drenched with sweat and nearing collapse. 

Oliver has just closed the bathroom door, firmly, heading for a shower after a grueling practice with Roy.

"Preaching to the choir, Bucko," Felicity remarks.

"I'm gettin' out of here before he catches his second wind," Roy declares, grabbing his hoodie. "Later, Blondie!"

"Yeah, toodles," she replies, with a listless wave of her hand as she stares at the glowing monitors.

The sound of Digg's heavy boots on the stairs indicate an early night so he can be home with Lyla. He dumps his weapons and shrugs out of the Arrow's hood before turning his attention to her.

"Hey, girl," he greets her with a familiar smile as he approaches her work station.

"Hey, Digg," she responds, failing to hide her tiredness.

Diggle crouches beside Felicity, looking carefully into her face. "You're lookin' peaked tonight. You okay?"

She musters a smile for his sake, saying, "Just tired."

"He still here?" Diggle asks, looking around.

Felicity points her head in Oliver's direction, sighing, "In the shower. Washing off any traces of his humanity."

The two friends exchange an understanding glance and he lifts a warm, comforting hand to her slender shoulder. "I'm sorry, Felicity."

His kindness brings tears that she is so weary of shedding. With a swipe of her hand, she dries her eyes, adding, "You can't fix stupid."

"Sometimes you can," Diggle advises with a wink. "You just have to get stupid's attention."

She laughs in spite of her melancholy, returning John's hug as he rises and heads for the stairs. The heavy security door closes behind him with a clang.

Before she loses her nerve, Felicity is on her feet, suddenly determined to get stupid’s attention. Because if she doesn't, this is her last damn night in The Foundry.

**> \---->|<\----<**

She barges into the steamy bathroom to the shock and surprise of one very naked, wet Oliver Queen who is just stepping from the shower.

"Felicity!" he yells, grabbing wildly for a towel to pull around his waist. "What the—"

"Oh, please," she reasons. "Unless you've grown something new in the past month, I've seen it all. Hell, I've touched it all."

“Is something wrong?” he asks in alarm. “Has the Foundry been breached?”

“Stand down. There’s plenty wrong, but the trouble is right here, in this very hot bathroom,” she answers, fanning her face with her hand.

A hint of exasperation crosses his face as he questions, “Can’t this wait? At least let me get some clothes on.”

“No, this won’t take long,” she states firmly, advancing on him. “And I’m not waiting another minute to have this conversation.”

Oliver sighs in surrender, trapped by a diminutive, but terrifying woman who’s apparently reached the end of her patience.

“What the frack, Oliver? You and I were... are... lovers. Dammit, I hate time travel. The verb conjugation is so confusing. You told me you loved me. And I believed it. You asked me to marry you, for God’s sake. And then you shut me out like it meant nothing?”

“Felicity…” he stutters.

“Shut up. You haven’t had anything to say to me for weeks, so don’t start now,” she yells, fury flashing in her eyes.

Oliver actually takes a step back.

“We returned home — to save _your_ life — and it’s back to business as usual. You've hit the reset button and want to pretend Paris never happened. Pretend **_we_** never happened? Because you can only love me in another time? In a different place? But never here?”

“No,” he tries to explain, “Felicity, I will always—“

“Oliver,” she interrupts him hotly, “I hated the ending of _Casablanca_ because ‘We’ll always have Paris’ isn’t enough. Not for me. And you shouldn’t settle for a memory either. We need today. We deserve tomorrow.”

And then Felicity wilts, out of words, her energy and anger suddenly spent. She sways on her heels and leans into the wall.

“Oh, God, it’s hot in here,” she murmurs as she gradually slides down the tiles.

Oliver follows her down, kneeling at her side, “Felicity, are you okay?”

“Nothing a little fainting won’t cure,” she says as the black dots close in.

When Felicity comes to, she is lying on the Foundry’s green leather couch with a cold rag on her forehead and Oliver hovering above her, his fingers on the pulsepoint of her wrist.

“Well, that was undignified,” she remarks mildly, letting her eyelids fall shut because, hey, it makes the room stop spinning and she’s mortified that her tirade ended with her on the floor in need of his rescue. Again.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, almost as if he might give a damn and she wants to say something to that effect, but it will take too much effort to insult him at the moment.

“I’ve had a bug,” she admits, her eyes still closed. “A touch of the flu or something.”

She senses he has left her side, but really doesn’t give a flying fig. She's just trying not to yack. Then he returns, gathering Felicity into his arms and climbing the stairs to leave the Foundry.

“I can walk, Oliver,” she protests as the cool night air touches her face, sparking her alertness. “I don’t need you to take me home. I just got too hot in there.”

“I’ll say,” he replies with a breath of a laugh, buckling her into the passenger seat of his Porsche. Oliver lays her purse in her lap before closing the door and going around to slide behind the wheel.

Felicity falls asleep on the ride to her apartment, but regains a little composure by walking to her own door and unlocking it, with Oliver a step behind. At the threshold, she turns to him and, in her coldest voice, “Thank you for taking me home. I’ll be fine now.”

“Felicity,” he says, “Let me at least—“

“Help me into bed,” she suggests sarcastically, arching a wicked eyebrow. Her bitterness strikes home, leaving a wounded look in his eyes.

“Call me if you need anything,” he offers quietly as he steps away. “Feel better.”

Felicity closes the door, leaning her forehead against it, regretting she hurt him, but fairly certain it’s time to move on. Alone.

**> \---->|<\----<**


	26. Keepsakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diggle counsels his friends who are coming to terms with their choices. Oliver delivers five sentimental gifts to Felicity. She gives him one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I began posting this story nine weeks ago, I never imagined it would include 26 chapters, 43,000+ words and the phrase "Zombie Nazi." Timejacked has been a thrill to write and I have been so blessed by the reception it's received. Thank you to each and every one of you who has taken this journey with me and Team Arrow. I am especially grateful for those of you who generously took the time to help me with French and German dialogue, promote this story on other sites, share encouraging comments and leave kudos.  
> Now, on with the final chapter of Timejacked. Enjoy!

It hits Felicity the next morning, clammy and clinging to the toilet bowl after having lost her breakfast, that this is no flu bug. “Holy cats, I’m pregnant.” So much for moving on alone. Now there’s two of her.

She makes an appointment with her doctor for the afternoon, taking a sick day from work. After five home pregnancy tests and five alarming little plus signs, the writing is clear on the wall: The universe hates her.

Felicity does not return to The Foundry. She ignores Oliver’s repeated calls and texts. Finally, to prevent him showing up at her door, she sends a simple message saying she’s fine and needing some time to get over her bug. Her nine-month bug.

Two weeks later, there’s a quiet knock at her apartment door. With supreme dread, she checks the peephole, relieved to see Diggle’s face.

Opening the door, Felicity hugs him at the threshold, clinging for a moment longer than usual, but realizing how much she needs a friend. Needs this friend.

“Felicity, I’m glad to see you, but the ice cream is melting,” he tells her as she pulls back, delighted to see the half-gallon carton of mint chocolate chip.

“I love you, John Diggle,” she squeals, adding earnestly, “And not just because of the ice cream.”

“That’s what all the girls say,” he good-naturedly comments, following her to the kitchen where she pulls out colorful Fiesta bowls and spoons. They perch at her counter to share one of her favorite indulgences, which she sorely missed during their ‘blast to the past.’

They make small talk for a few minutes before he jumpstarts the inevitable conversation he has planned.

“So, how far along are you?” Digg asks, causing Felicity to drop a large dollop of ice cream on the kitchen tile.

“How do you know?” she demands in astonishment.

“Not my first rodeo, girl,” he answers with a knowing smile. “How many weeks?”

“Thirteen,” she sighs, dropping her face into her hands, her elbows planted on the bar. “And I have no idea what I’m going to do,” she moans through the curtain of her loose hair.

“Does he know?” Diggle asks gently.

“No and I don’t want him to. He’ll just feel neurotically obligated,” she says, raising her eyes to Digg’s.

“Girl, he **_is_** obligated,” he asserts. “It’s Oliver’s baby and even though he’s more screwed up than a lightbulb, you have to tell him, Felicity.”

“He doesn’t want me,” she confesses, heartbreak in her voice.

Diggle comes around to her side of the counter, wrapping his arms around her. His next words rumble in his chest, where her ear is pressed.

“Oliver doesn’t know what he wants. Or what he needs. But, if it’s any comfort, he’s been like a caged animal since you left," he relates. "Felicity, I can't predict what Oliver will do. But I do know this. You're not alone. We got you, girl. We'll see you through this, come what may."

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity haunts him. With the memory of her words declaring his betrayal. With the silky, golden strands of her hair on the Foundry sofa. The faint scent of her perfume on her sweater in the empty workspace. Whether he's patrolling, training or trying to sleep, her ghost lives in his head, fed by his guilt.

At first, Oliver believes Felicity might actually be taking a few personal days to get over her virus, although it's unlike her. But after a full week's absence, his heart sinks. She is gone. He fears he's lost her. And it's wrecking him.

He never meant for them to turn out this way. Since their return, Normandy feels like a long ago dream, a fictional love story that he desperately wants to be real. But in Starling City, Oliver doesn't know how to be that guy, open and trusting, so drunk with love. Because today, in this gritty reality, he lives in self-imposed exile. As the Arrow, he craves tightly-controlled isolation. As a man, he just wants Felicity back in his arms.

**> \---->|<\----<**

"Anybody ever diagnose you as bi-polar?" Roy asks, lying flat on the training mat after being felled again by a merciless Oliver. "Or maybe multiple personality disorder?" Roy impatiently suggests, rising slowly and staggering towards the shower.

"That your way of dealing with stress? Knocking the whey out of that kid every night?" Diggle calmly asks from the corner, where he has been watching Oliver take out his demons on Roy.

"He can take it," Oliver declares, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

"He can," Digg agrees. "She can't."

Oliver's head pivots to Diggle in sudden anger. "I don't want to talk about her."

"Strangely enough," Diggle begins wryly, "I already knew that. But we're gonna talk anyway."

"Stay out of it, Digg," Oliver threatens, a glower on his face.

"Wish I could, brother," Digg answers, straightening to his full height, in case this exchange escalates. "But for both of your sakes, I can't."

Oliver throws him a venomous look.

"Look, man, I don't know what all happened between you two back there, but I saw enough to know that you made commitments to Felicity, in word and deed. And I'm bound to make sure you keep 'em or give her an explanation for why you can't."

Oliver paces in frustration, struggling to defend his actions, "I don't know what I was thinking. I screwed up! I let her get too close."

Diggle sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I don't think your screw-up was when you let her get to you, Oliver. You messed up when you pushed her away."

"It's for her own good," Oliver explodes. "I'm protecting her!"

"Oliver!" Diggle's volume rises, "That girl — **_your girl_** — is hurting. And that's on you." Losing his temper, Diggle closes the distance between them in a few long strides, getting in Oliver's face. "You're a grown-ass man. Make this right before it's too late. There's more at stake here than you know."

To his credit, Oliver's indignation deflates in the face of Diggle's righteous anger. His head hangs in defeat, flooded with regret and shame.

"I don't know how to fix this," Oliver confesses. "My instincts are terrible."

Diggle, calmer now, drops a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "Look man, you decided two years ago to trust Felicity. She's had your back ever since. She understands Oliver Queen better than anyone. Including yourself. True?"

"Yes," Oliver admits.

"Then why are you in this sweaty basement jacking around with me and Roy when you could be with her?"

**> \---->|<\----<**

Felicity ends up working late, pushed to get ahead of a software development deadline. After dark, when she finally arrives back at her apartment, all she can think of is getting out of these miserable shoes and into the package of double-stuffed Oreos lurking on her kitchen table. She practically tumbles into her living room, shedding her heels and dumping her satchel before she notices him.

Oliver stands in her kitchen, a cup towel draped over his shoulder, frozen in mid-stride.

"Oliver," she says. "You're in my apartment."

Sometimes, Captain Obvious buys you time. 

"Is that okay?" he asks tentatively.

Felicity stares at him for a full minute, literally flat-footed. The neurons firing in her quirky brain suggest this moment truly is a pregnant pause. Eventually, she blurts, "I don't know. I have to think about it." Then she abruptly disappears down the hallway.

When she returns, Felicity has changed into Minions sleep pants and an oversized tee shirt with striped fuzzy socks. She's released her hair from her trademark ponytail so that it falls in soft waves around her shoulders. She could pass for a teenager if it weren't for the dark smudges of adult stress beneath her eyes. Pulling her feet under her, she burrows into a corner of the sofa, looking at an unsettled Oliver, now occupying one of her kitchen chairs.

"Felicity?" he begins hesitantly.

"So which Oliver are you today?" Felicity demands.

He sighs before rising and walking to her sofa. "Oh, the one you know best. Oliver the Penitent Jackass. Also known as Oliver the Hopeless Screw-Up. Or just Ass Hat, for short."

And damn him, he makes her laugh. "Oh, I hate you," she moans between giggles. "So much."

Oliver lowers himself to sit on the opposite end of her couch, watching her, waiting, because she's entitled to an explanation for his unforgivable rejection of her. But she just casts sad eyes on him, as if she understands what he cannot, what he never will.

"Can you forgive me, Felicity?" he asks quietly.

"Will it happen again?" Felicity questions, her gaze clear and sure. "Will you shut me out the next time there's a threat? Will you sacrifice your happiness — and mine — for the next big mission?"

Oliver's head lowers as her words nail him for the inconstant bastard he is. He lifts his eyes to hers, storms meeting calm seas, admitting, "I don't know. Felicity, I sometimes feel so... radioactive. Like you'd be better off without me. So I pull back."

Felicity uncurls from her nesting corner and slides over to him, slipping her hand into his. Oliver latches on as if she is his lifeline.

"Oh, Oliver," Felicity says softly, saddened by his words. "But we were so happy before. While we were gone. What happened with you after we came home?"

With his free hand, Oliver rubs the back of his neck in frustration. "After we came back, none of it seemed real. The war, Savage, the Resistance. It was like we dreamed it."

Felicity pulls the neck of his Henley open, revealing the deep scar Savage left on his chest. "That real enough for you?" she demands.

Then, lifting the left side of her own shirt to expose the fading scar along her ribs. "How about this one? Real enough for you?"

But Oliver's not seeing her scar. He's riveted by the gentle swell of her abdomen.

"Felicity," he whispers, wonder in his voice, moving his large, warm palm to rest on her rounded stomach. His eyes look to hers in askance, in hope. With a small nod and teary smile, she bites her lower lip, unsure of what his reaction will be.

Oliver can speak paragraphs in the ways he says her name. Felicity has heard them all. The patient, hyphenated one, meaning "Stop babbling and make your point because I think you have an important one racing around in your remarkable mind." The loud one with exclamation points that hollers "I know you've screwed with our electronic security to keep me from leaving." The panicky one when she's been threatened or injured. And Felicity's favorite: the passionate, intense murmur of her name, confessing he's hopelessly lost in her.

But now she hears a new, beautiful version of "Felicity," filled with awe, with anticipation, with tenderness, as Oliver gathers her to his chest, three beloved hearts beating in the circle of his embrace, holding all he ever needs.

**> \---->|<\----<**

**EPILOGUE:**

In the coming days, the seven timejacked residents of Starling City are returned to their rightful places by Rip Hunter. During their months of service, they secretly made significant contributions to the war effort as spies, codebreakers, scientists and diplomats. When Professor Stein comes home he shares an unforgettable evening with the members of Team Arrow as they recall their extraordinary adventures in Europe during World War II.

Through Hunter, they learn that the American airman and the band of Jewish refugees living under Oliver’s & Felicity’s room were safely smuggled through Spain to England and eventually made it to the United States. In 2014, their descendants numbered more than 300, their very existence assured by Jean-Paul’s group of Freedom Fighters.

The head of Vandal Savage was buried without ceremony in unmarked ground known only to John Diggle. He would never disclose its location to another living soul.

In the fourth month of her pregnancy, Oliver gives Felicity five presents.

She finds the first gift, wrapped beautifully in shades of scarlet and pink, at the front door of her apartment when she arrives home from work, juggling bags of Chinese take-out, her purse and laptop satchel. She slides the large box inside with her foot as she unlocks and enters her place, dumping her things on her way to the kitchen. Kicking off her heels, she returns to the hallway for the pretty package which has definitely piqued her interest.

Collapsing on her overstuffed sofa, she checks for a card or address, finding none. Taking her time, she carefully unwraps and opens the box, folding back the matching tissue paper to reveal a pair of long-sleeved, satin pajamas, flooding her with memories of the Myrna Loy set she wore on their first night in Normandy. A giggle escapes her as she recalls the lopsided, itty-bitty bed she shared with Oliver. In the little beach house, she had kissed him for the first time.

"Holy Roosevelt," she whispers through sentimental tears.

The next morning, a perfectly-restored, vintage bicycle, shining in candied green-apple lacquer, greets her. Dressed with a huge yellow bow, the bike has been left on her apartment balcony. Balanced on the seat is a tin of aromatic French-roast coffee beans with a little antique grinder.

A few hours later, an intriguing, small rectangular box sheathed in expensive silver paper is delivered to her desk at Palmer Industries. Felicity lets it sit, untouched, like a bomb waiting for the detonation team. Finally, overpowered by curiosity, she meticulously unwraps and opens the petite present. Inside the cardboard box is a burgundy velvet case, which triggers another nail-biting wait. Finally, fortified by a deep breath, she raises the velvet lid to reveal a sterling silver bracelet adorned with dainty, miniature charms: a little tent, a train, a bicycle, an antique footed bathtub, the Mercedes-Benz star, a hand grenade, a box of chocolates, an itty-bitty bed, a spider, a barn, a wine bottle, a single rose, the Eiffel Tower. A small, beveled disk engraved with the promise he made in Paris, "My forever, My always". And the sweetest charm — a tiny, sparkling engagement ring.

Oliver makes the fourth delivery personally: a dozen long-stemmed Peace roses in delicate shades of yellow, accompanied by sinfully-divine French chocolates, a bottle of sparkling grape juice and airline tickets to Paris. It is there, in the City of Light, as the sun sets on the Seine, that he repeats the profession of love he made seventy years ago — this time, with the ring.

**> \---->|<\----<**

 


End file.
